Trigger City (22 page)

“Delwood Crawley?” said Mike Angelo.

“Nah, I don't really think so, either,” I said. “Not his style.”

Just as I was trying to think of another tangent to take us on, Special Agent Holborn came into the bar. The cops at the table were all looking at me and didn't notice him until he was standing over us.

In his most official
FBI Special Agent
voice, Holborn said, “Lieutenant Angelo, nice to see you again.” He nodded at the detectives, “Gentlemen.”

Mike fixed me with a slow burn. I tried to look like I was just as surprised as he, but I don't think he bought it.

“Agent Holborn,” said Mike. “What's going on?”

Holborn put his hand on my shoulder. “I'm here to take my witness.” He gave me a quick upward nod. “Get up.”

I stood.

Mike said, “Wait a sec, the FBI is taking over the Crawley murder?”

Holborn shook his head. “Unrelated case,” he said.

Samuels got tough, said, “Then wait your turn; we're in the middle of a murder here. You can have him when we're done with him.”

“You're done with him now,” said Holborn. “You have a problem with that, you can take it up with my SAC in the morning.”

I shrugged at the detectives. “Sorry, guys. Call me tomorrow if you have any more questions.” I added a friendly smile. “I'm always happy to cooperate.”

I
left my rental car at the meter
and rode down to Millennium Park with Holborn. Along the way, I told him about Crawley's death and gave him the details on Grant's visit to my office.

“So Sten broiled Crawley to send you a message. He figured you'd start picturing the same thing happening to the people you love. Extra motivation. That how you see it?”

“Partly,” I said. “He also had to find out how much Crawley knew. And I'd denied being Crawley's source. Don't think they believed me but they'd need to be sure.”

“I'm sure he told them before he died,” said Holborn.

“I'm sure he did.”

“You think it's your fault?” The very question I'd been avoiding for the last couple hours.

“Of course it's my fault. I mean I can spin it—they'd have done Crawley to find out how much he knew, even if I hadn't denied being his source. And I told him not to run the piece. But…”

“But you fed it to him in the first place,” said Holborn.

“Yup. I did that.”

We rode in silence for a while. Holborn and me and my guilt, all crowded into his Grand Marquis. Yes, Delwood Crawley was a scumbag. Yes, I'd told him not to run the piece. And yes, Blake Sten was the man ultimately responsible for his death. None of that mattered. None of that washed my hands clean.

All the perfumes of Arabia…

This was something I'd be carrying for a very long time. There was no way to rationalize it. There would be no thinking it away.

“I've been meeting with resistance up the line on this,” said Holborn.

“Big surprise,” I said.

“Not what you think. We're moving forward, cautiously. But I'm expending some personal capital on this within the Bureau.” He took the ramp off Lake Shore Drive and hung a right on Randolph. “We'll see what Amy Zhang has to say. But you don't actually have any evidence to back her up, do you, Ray?”

“Um…” I said.

“I thought not.” Holborn smiled at his little victory. “Told you I'm not an idiot.”

“So why are you—”

“Because if I don't, civilians are gonna start dropping like flies.” He pulled a U-turn, stopped in front of the park entrance. “Because if I don't, Grant and Sten are gonna get away clean.” He shut off the ignition. “Right now I've got nothing to stop them with. Like you said, they've got heavy influence in very high places. If I move too soon, we'll lose them forever. So you need to be prepared, because I suspect some bodies are going to drop before we have enough on them.”

Bodies. A minute ago, Holborn had called them
the people you love.
Now they were bodies.

“Those aren't just bodies,” I said.

“I know. But until I can present some hard evidence, I'm flying solo on this.” He looked at his watch. “It's time, let's go.”

 

The Bean is a polished stainless steel sculpture that measures sixty-six feet long and thirty-three feet high and resembles, well, a bean. Or a blob of liquid mercury. Anish Kapoor insisted that people call his creation Cloud Gate, but he'd taken too long deciding on the name and by the time he got around to announcing it, Chicagoans had already given it the nickname that everyone used. Nobody called it Cloud Gate.

Because of its shape, you can walk directly under the Bean, and that's where Amy and Vince were waiting when we arrived. Amy looked nervous, which was to be expected. I guess Vince was nervous, too, because he shook my hand unnecessarily when I said hello. I introduced them to Holborn and told Amy that she could trust him and she should tell him everything. She just nodded.

Holborn didn't want me there while they talked. He wanted her story untainted by my presence. I didn't like it, but I understood. So Vince and I stayed put, while Holborn took Amy for a walk in the park. I watched as they disappeared across the winding Frank Gehry walking bridge, then I leaned back against a low wall with Michigan Avenue behind me. From this spot, the Bean reflected the entire Chicago skyline. It was one of the most beautiful views in the city.

The Bean was new, but the Michigan Avenue skyline was the one great constant in my life, and it still filled me with awe. Like the Bean itself, the skyline provided convincing testament that humans aspire to beauty. Despite everything.

Chicago was Trigger City, but not all the triggers were bad.

Vince propped himself against the wall beside me and listened as I told him all about this case, taking it from my first visit to Isaac Richmond all the way to Delwood Crawley's death. His life was in danger now and I owed him the whole story.

I finished with an apology. I should've told him everything sooner. Should've given him the information he needed so he could've chosen to bail out before things got to this point.

When I was done, Vince said, “You ever try to go down on a chick in a Ford Escort?”

“What?”

“Happened to me a few weeks ago. Met this wild chick at a bar. We were dancing, you know, and things got pretty hot 'n' heavy and we ended up in my car.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I broke the condom trying to get it on. Only condom I had. So we went oral. When it came my turn to give, man, it was a hell of a thing, trying to find a good position for her. I'm gonna have to get a bigger car.”

“Vince, did you listen to a word I just said? They mean to kill you.”

“I heard you,” said Vince. “Thing is, when I used to drive for Johnny Greico, my life was in danger, but for what? For nothing. Few weeks ago, I was doing your shit jobs, following Romeo around, serving papers on losers. Better than driving for the Outfit, but still…the biggest thing in my life was getting head from some chick I met in a bar. You see?”

“I see.”

“Amy's a real nice lady,” said Vince.

“Yes, she is.”

“And I'm helping you keep her alive.” He let out a broad smile. “And that's fuckin' awesome. Greatest thing I've ever done.”

 

Holborn and Amy returned in just under an hour. Vince took Amy home and Holborn gave me a ride back to my car.

He said, “She told me everything you've done for her.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I like her story, and I believe her, but…” He shrugged. “I'll do what I can. I'll try to sell it to the desk in Washington but getting her into the program may take a little time, if I can get her in at all.”

“They're gonna start killing people at five o'clock tomorrow,” I said.

Holborn didn't answer. We drove in silence for a while and I looked out the side window at Lake Michigan. Moonlight reflected off the calm black water, glittered like false hope.

“She's a brave woman,” Holborn said.

“She is,” I said.

“I can't help but think…the whole time she and her husband were setting up those Web sites and smuggling news into China, American search engines were helping the Chinese government censor the news and American ISPs were turning over the names of political dissidents to the MSS.”

“Welcome to the new ethos,” I said. “Whatever it takes to make Wall Street happy. China's a big market.”

“You sound like a radical.”

“Hell, no, I'm a capitalist,” I said. “But we both know that isn't the system we've got. It's a rigged game, and it's been rigged so long we don't even see it anymore. People like Amy know what freedom means. We've forgotten.”

After a few seconds, Holborn said, “You must be a lot of fun at parties.”

I put my soapbox away, said, “You should see me limbo.”

He pulled the car to a stop across the street from where I'd parked my rental.

“Come to my office at ten,” he said as I opened the passenger door. “I'll have an answer on Amy by then. The rest of it, I don't know. We'll see what answer I get from National.”

 

I wasn't going to get more than a few hours' sleep and I knew if I went to Joan Richmond's place, the sheets would smell of Jill and I wouldn't sleep at all. So I went home.

There was a message on my machine. I pressed Play. My grandfather's voice said, “Ray, it's Pop. Had a visit today from an old friend of yours, by the name of Tim Dellitt. Nice young man, former navy. Said you two went to PI school together. I'm taking him out fishing tomorrow. Guess you're not home, so call when you get a chance. Bye.”

I snatched up the receiver and dialed, listened to the phone ring in my ear.

No answer. But my grandfather was a heavy sleeper. I let it ring on. Finally he picked up and croaked a groggy hello.

“Pop, it's Ray. Sorry to wake you.”

“What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. “Almost five. Almost six, your time. Listen: I need you to wake up, this is important. You need to be alert.” I heard the rustling of bedsheets through the phone as my grandfather sat up.

“All right, all right. I'm up. What's the trouble?”

“The man who came to see you.”

“Yes, Tim. Nice fella…”

“No, Pop, he's not a nice fella. He's the furthest thing from a nice fella you ever met. And he never went to PI school with me.”

“Well, then he played this old man for a sucker. What's going on?”

“I don't have time to explain. You still have your service pistol?”

“'Course I do.”

“Get it, load it, keep it with you. If Dellitt comes back, he means to kill you. Don't let him anywhere near the house.”

After a few seconds of silence, my grandfather said, “I'm supposed to meet him at the marina this afternoon.”

“You stay put. And call Sheriff Grayson.”

“Sheriff Grayson retired.”

“Then call whoever the hell replaced him, I don't care. This is serious—”

“All right, calm down, son. I'll take care of it.”

“You promise. You're not going to the marina.”

“I'm not going to the marina. I'll get my gun, I'll call the sheriff. Don't worry about me. You just take care of whatever this mess is you've got yourself into.”

“I will.”

“And you call me when you can.”

I fought to get the lump out of my throat. “Sorry about this, Pop.”

“All right. You be careful now.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

I took a quick shower, set my alarm for eight-thirty, and was asleep in minutes.

I
woke with a start, sat bolt upright
with my heart pounding and Sister Sledge singing in my head.

We are family, I got all my sisters with me…

I leapt from the bed, threw on a pair of jeans, T-shirt. Slapped on some deodorant. Grabbed my gun and threaded the holster on my belt. Ran a toothbrush around my mouth, slipped into a leather jacket, and was out the door in two minutes. Didn't stop to shave or comb my hair; just jammed a ball cap on my head as I flew out the door.

We are family, I got all my sisters with me…

Broke every conceivable traffic law getting past the morning congestion to Joan Richmond's condo. Parked at a fire hydrant in front. Jumped from the car and sprinted up Joan's front steps. Unlocked the door and was inside.

We are a family, get up everybody and sing!

Snatched the disco albums from Joan's CD collection. Flipped through to the ABBA CD, took a deep breath, held it, opened the jewel case.

It was
ABBA's Greatest Hits
. But it was too thick; there was another
disc behind it. I pulled off the ABBA CD, and there it was. Not a music CD, but a computer CD-ROM. Written in Sharpie on the face was:
Joan Richmond #1.

I flipped through the other disco and Europop albums. They all had CD-ROMs under the CDs.
Joan Richmond #2, Joan Richmond #3, Joan Richmond #4, Joan Richmond #5.

I stuck the first one into Joan's computer. The files were password protected. I didn't even bother to try to guess a password. The FBI had guys who could get into it without breaking a sweat.

On the way to FBI headquarters, it occurred to me that my big mistake had been my hatred of disco. In the past few weeks I'd listened to most of Joan Richmond's music collection, but I hadn't even touched these discs.

And Steven Zhang had tried to tell me. The soundtrack to his suicide had been his final message to the world. He'd put
ABBA's Greatest Hits
on the stereo when he shot himself.

Amy had told me that Steven hadn't given the computer files to Joan, but she was wrong. He had given them to her,
after
he killed her. He knew he wouldn't have time to hide them after the gunshots shattered the calm of a Saturday afternoon in Lincoln Park, so he'd hidden them in plain sight.

I got Special Agent Holborn on the phone, told him I was coming in hot, and he said he'd clear the decks for my arrival.

And he did. I pulled into the visitor's parking lot on Roosevelt and one of the armed security guards was waiting for me. I hopped out of the car and he walked me into the security hut.

The older guard behind the counter said, “Gun, sir,” and I handed him my pistol. We didn't bother with ID this time, and didn't need to.

Holborn stood on the other side of the metal detector. He said, “I'll vouch.”

I walked through, set off the alarm, and the younger guard passed the wand over me and it beeped at my belt buckle and keys and watch and pocket change and Zippo. He held out his hand and I gave him the lighter.

“Got 'em?” said Holborn. I held up the CD cases and he took them from me. He was wearing latex gloves. “Let's go.”

We walked briskly from the security hut to the main building, the escort guard trailing behind, passed through the main doors, and then to the reception desk. I passed my driver's license under the bulletproof glass.

“Come on,” said Holborn, “you can pick it up on your way out.”

I left my driver's license with the receptionist and followed him through the inner doors. We walked down the long hallway but turned before the elevators. Down another narrow hallway, then another, to a set of steel double doors. The sign on the door said ERT.

“Evidence Response Team,” said Holborn. “This is where we do all the stuff you see on CSI, minus all the bullshit you see on CSI.”

“Never watched it,” I said.

We passed through the doors and into a large, brightly lit room with a stainless steel counter running around the perimeter. On the counter there were computers, scanners, printers, microscopes, and a whole bunch of machines unfamiliar to me. There was a large stainless steel table in the center of the room.

An evidence technician in a white lab coat, latex gloves, and a hairnet greeted us and Holborn said, “Dan, I need these processed fast.”

Dan took the CDs over to what looked like a large steel armoire with glass doors. Inside was a pole with some empty hangers on it, and a wire mesh shelf. He carefully removed the CDs from the jewel cases and put them on the mesh shelf, took the liner notes and put them on the shelf, disassembled the cases, and added each piece to the shelf. Then closed the doors and pressed a button on an electronic keypad next to the doors. A red light came on above the doors and the room filled with a whirring sound.

“It's basically a giant vacuum cleaner,” said Holborn. “It'll collect any fibers, stray hairs, flakes of skin. It would be nice to have some DNA to positively link them to Steven Zhang.”

After a minute or two, the whirring stopped and the red light switched to green. Dan took the CDs out of the unit and brought them
to the counter, where he sprayed them with something from a can and stuck them under a viewer.

He turned to me, said, “We've got prints, I assume some of them are yours.”

Holborn said, “Dudgeon's prints are on file from his gun permit.”

“Okay,” said Dan. “Should be easy enough. Give me twenty minutes and I'll get them to the computer guys.”

“Thanks,” said Holborn. He peeled off the latex gloves and tossed them in the trash on the way out the door.

Down the hall to another room, this one full of computer stations. Holborn leaned through the door, said, “Emmett, Dan's sending you some CDs. I need you to open them and see what we got, bring it up to the meeting room. Soon as you can. Thanks.”

 

“Okay, there's a lot to go through,” said Special Agent Emmett Sanders, “but let's start with a quick overview of what we know so far.”

We sat in the boardroom where Holborn and I had met before. Sanders tapped on his laptop computer and the big screen on the far wall lit up with two spreadsheets, side by side.

“The first three discs are all spreadsheets,” said Sanders. “What it looks like is the classic scam, keeping two sets of books. Hawk River charges the military obscene amounts of money for everything. Forty-five dollars for a can of soda? These guys make a five-thousand-dollar hammer look like a bargain. What they do is, they elevate all their costs to keep their profits looking less obscene on the false set of books for the auditors. Worth prosecuting of course, and just the sort of thing the congressional committee is looking for. But not earth-shattering.” As he talked, the screen showed page after page of double spreadsheets. “Everywhere you look, they're doing it. Travel costs, equipment costs, materials, everything. Of course, we'll know more when the forensic accounting guys get to it, but that's what it looks like so far. Here, I'll show you some examples…”

I caught Holborn's eye and tapped on my watch.
Time's wasting.

“Okay, fine. Next,” said Holborn.

Sanders gave a little shrug of annoyance, tapped on his computer keyboard, and the screen changed to a list of names, with dollar figures and what looked like bank account numbers.

He said, “Next is hotter stuff. Disc number four. Details of kickbacks to military procurement officers.”

“Damn,” said Holborn. The phone on the boardroom table rang and he picked it up. “Holborn…yeah…great, thanks.” He hung up the phone, smiled at me. “The only prints on the CD cases, other than yours, belong to one Steven Zhang.”

Sanders cleared his throat, reclaiming the spotlight. “As I was saying, we've got the kickbacks. And that's not all.” He tapped his keyboard again. The screen showed another spreadsheet, less complicated than the ones we looked at earlier and containing more text within its cells and fewer numbers. “These guys cut a lot of corners. Now this is all preliminary, and we'll know more once we've had time to go through it, but I think I've got an idea what's going on here…”

“Stop,” I said. Then to Holborn, “It's two o'clock. I have to make a phone call by five or people start dying. We can't be sitting here going through spreadsheets all day.”

Holborn said, “Emmett, forget the computer. We can't read the screen from here, anyway. Just tell us the big items. In a nutshell, please.”

Agent Sanders put the computer aside, sighed. “In a nutshell, disc four tells us three things. One—Hawk River was bribing military procurement officers. Two—they cut corners by hiring a lot of third party nationals, who didn't receive anywhere near the training that their American employees got, and cut more corners by sending the TPNs into theater with inferior equipment. Three—the mortality rate of the TPNs is
seven times
that of their American employees. And they were keeping false records to cover that up.”

“So Steven Zhang found the records on the computers, realized that they didn't match the official records that Joan Richmond had, and told her about it,” I said.

“Possible,” said Holborn. Then, to Sanders, “What's on disc five?”

Sanders smiled. “Disc five is the grand slam. Again we've got two sets of records, but this time, we're talking about deployment. Hawk River has contractors deployed in seventeen countries. Officially. Mostly on contract to governments, some to corporations. Oil companies and mining—gold, uranium, diamonds—mostly in Africa and the Middle East but also South and Central America. There are four more countries where they've got soldiers on a classified basis—Colombia, El Salvador, Chile, and the Congo. They're not officially there, but they're there. So those
black contracts
appear in the records, but the country names are coded.”

“Where's the grand slam?” said Holborn.

“The grand slam is Sudan.”

“Darfur?” I said.

“Exactly. See, the Western world has largely pulled out of Sudan because of the political pressure. Genocide is hard to explain at a public shareholders' meeting, so even the big Western oil companies pulled out.”

“Oh, crap,” I said. “China.”

“Right. China is by far the biggest consumer of Sudanese oil. China also supplies the Sudanese government with the weapons they use to slaughter their citizens. The other investors in the oil industry in Sudan include Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, India, and Pakistan, but even they do it through partnership with China's petroleum giants. Really, it's China's game. And Hawk River has been playing in Darfur, working for a shell corporation that is supposed to be Kuwaiti but is really China.” Sanders leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Like I said, grand slam.”

Holborn and I stared at each other for a long time. Finally Holborn said, “Oh my God. Hawk River is working for the Chinese government.”

“Explains a lot.”

“It's fucking treason.”

“Maybe. Or it's something that Typhon the Multiheaded Beast knows all about and wants to keep under wraps. Alphabet Soup.”