Wake the Devil (18 page)

“Go ahead.”

“You or your husband ever have any dealings with Sergei Borov?”

“I never heard his name until the investigators showed up at our home and started asking questions about what we saw in the garage.”

“Strange,” Dwayne said. “Seeing someone hand another person a suitcase don’t seem like such a big deal to me.”

“Which may be why Carmine Donofrio wants the Sandman taken alive. If he can tie Borov into the contract, that would make his case,” Beth said.

“What contract?” Rachel asked.

“The one to kill you, Will, and your husband.”

“Oh, that contract.”

J
ack and Pappas had just gotten out of Pappas’s cruiser in the crime lab parking lot when someone called out Jack’s name. The detective was carrying a medium sized paper bag. They turned to see a large man, close in size to the detective, striding toward them.

“Can I help you?” Jack asked.

He probably weighed close to 275 pounds but was carrying it on a frame built for 225 pounds. His hair was a mixture of salt and pepper and his complexion was florid. Even his walk looked angry.

“You’re Kale?”

“I am. This is Detective Dan Pappas. What can I do for you, Doctor?”

The question momentarily stopped what Stuart Patterson was about to say.

“There’s a medical license plate on that car you were leaning against and a Johns Hopkins class ring on your finger,” Jack explained. “I assume the two are related.”

Patterson recovered and introduced himself, then said, “I’d like to know what’s going on. I’ve lost two partners and nearly had another killed yesterday. You were supposed to protect them, goddammit.”

“I know,” Jack said, quietly. “Would you like to come inside?”

“Let’s just talk right here. I’ve got an office full of people waiting on me.”

“All right. First off, our condolences for the death of Willis Landry and, of course, Dr. George Lawrence. You have our deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you. How about if we cut to the chase?” Patterson said.

“You have every right to be upset. We all are. Yesterday we lost a good man, a young Homicide detective, so you’re not alone in this.”

Patterson closed his eyes for a moment and gathered himself.

“Right. I heard about that. I’m sorry, too. This business has got us all crazy.”

“I understand.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I’m worried sick over Rachel. Is she safe?”

“Perfectly,” Jack said.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with her. She’s not answering her phone.”

“She’s fine, Doctor. Or at least as fine as someone can be under these circumstances. She’s up in New York to do an operation. I thought you’d be aware of that. Two of our detectives are with her.”

Stuart Patterson shook his head as if to clear it, then said, “I probably should have asked our secretary where she was before storming over here.”

“It’s all right,” Jack said. “The situation’s somewhat strained. Rachel should be back tonight if all goes well.”

“Somewhat strained. That’s a helluva way to put it.”

Pappas said, “We’re dealing with a very determined assassin. I don’t know how up to speed you are, but yesterday he faked an attack on our administration building to go after Dr. Landry and Dr. Lawrence at the safehouse. Unfortunately, we got there too late to help Landry. If it wasn’t for Jack, he’d have gotten Rachel Lawrence, too.”

“I didn’t know that and I don’t mean to come across as ungrateful. But it’s hard to see this as a win, if you know what I mean. Will and George were both friends of mine.”

“I understand,” Pappas said. “We all feel like shit about what happened. I just want you to know we’re doing everything in our power to stop this guy.”

Two detectives who had just pulled into the lot exited their car. Hearing the tone of the voices, they slowed to a halt before going inside. Pappas motioned with his hand for them to continue.

“Look, I’m not pointing fingers,” Patterson said. “Well, maybe I am. But it’s obvious to me whatever you people are doing isn’t working.”

Jack and Pappas didn’t respond.

Patterson continued to address Pappas. “I spoke with Steve Rollins last night. He said he knows you. Steve’s in private business now and he’s a top flight investigator. I hired him to help out.”

Patterson handed the detective Rollins’s business card. Pappas examined it for a moment then said, “I know his name, but I can’t say I know him. Obviously, your heart’s in the right place, but adding someone else to the mix at this point won’t be helpful. In fact—”

“I respect you opinion. But this is a done deal, so I’d appreciate it if you’d cooperate with him.”

“Dr. Patterson—”

“The mayor’s a real good friend of mine and I imagine he’ll be giving you a call later to confirm what I’ve said.”

Pappas nodded and made no reply. Neither did Jack.

“I get you guys don’t like someone looking over your shoulders. But Rachel Lawrence has been through hell and I’m going to do whatever I have to do to protect her. Tell me this. Are you anywhere close to nailing the killer?”

Jack thought about telling him they’d learned who the killer was and decided against it. He simply said, “No.”

Patterson took a deep breath and looked around the lot for a moment. “Well, I appreciate your honesty. What about approaching Borov and putting a scare into him?”

“We don’t think that would be helpful,” Jack said.

“Goddammit, someone’s got to do something.”

“We intend to, Doctor.”

Stuart Patterson held Jack’s eye for a long moment. Nodded, then turned on his heel and walked back to his car. They watched him drive off.

“And the hits just keep on coming,” Pappas muttered.

*

Once inside the crime lab, they found Nelda Latham and Ben Furman already at work. On Jack’s advice, Pappas had sprung for that morning’s bagels and coffee, thus ensuring their movement up the line of evidence waiting to be analyzed. Ben Furman was in the process of explaining what they found. He was dressed in jeans, a gray sweatshirt that said “Georgia Tech,” and a pair of worn running shoes. As
he always did when speaking to people, he shoved his horn-rimmed glasses up onto his forehead.

“The items in the first two trays were taken from Peter Shackelford, one of the drone operators. Not much interesting here except a trace of cocaine powder. Nelda located that in his pant cuffs. His shoes also have bits of grass and dirt, which you’d expect to find at Piedmont Park. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The man’s what he seems to be, a druggie with two arrests for possession who was hired to fly a model airplane.”

“He’s the one who walked past HQ?” Pappas asked.

“Correct. We checked the security cameras and it’s definitely him. According to the beat cops, most nights Shackleford stays at the Salvation Army Center on Edgewood Avenue. During the days, he either panhandles or steals to support his habit.”

“Naturally,” Pappas said. “Easier than working.”

“What about the other man?” Jack said.

“Leonard Steven Walpole,” Ben Furman said, taking a bite of his bagel. “Love this walnut cream cheese. Good call, Dan.”

“My pleasure.”

Ben took a second to swallow, then went on. “Leonard’s also a drug user, but on a more serious level than Peter. The polygraph examiner noted needle tracks on his arm and the back of his leg when he hooked him up to the machine. He was so fidgety they had to restart the test several times. Like our friend Peter, he was approached by a man wearing black jeans and a sweater and asked to operate the flying platform. Both men differ about the shoes he was wearing. Peter says brown work boots. Leonard was sure they were burgundy loafers.”

Typical, Jack thought. Eyewitness identifications were notoriously unreliable, which was why, given a choice, he generally favored evidence. You might reach the wrong conclusion, but that would be your fault and not because someone had made a mistake or intentionally misled you.

Jack asked, “What did you find, absent their input?”

“Purple cashmere fibers, which would be consistent with what both said regarding the sweater’s color. Nelda calls it eggplant.”

Jack and Pappas both looked at Nelda, who repeated “Eggplant” through a mouthful of bagel.

“Eggplant it is,” Jack said. “What else?”

“In addition to the fibers,” Ben said. “The terra-cotta grains we’ve been seeing also make a reappearance, plus more of the marble dust.”

“Now that is strange,” Jack said. “I think we may need to talk to this man again.”

“If we can find him,” Pappas said. “The ATF geniuses lost the bastard.”

J
ack had just left the lab when his cellphone went off. It was Inspector Bennett-Walsh.

“Agent Kale, I’m glad I caught you. Or would you prefer Doctor? I apologize for not being aware of your credentials.”

“How about Jack?”

“Marvelous, I’m Ian. Now as to the reason for this call. After our conversation, I called Ireland and sent some chaps round to the Saint Ignatius Home where Thom Courtney lived. Of course, no one had seen him in years. Just to be thorough, two of our lads stopped at Courtney’s old house outside of Dublin. Under the law, it passed to him as the sole surviving heir. We expected it would be something of a wreck, having been abandoned for so long, but that wasn’t the case. It appears someone has been living there. Quite recently, I might add. The neighbors confirmed seeing a man on several occasions.”

“How recently?”

“Four days ago, according to Mrs. Effie Callahan, who lives next door. We may well have found the Sandman’s base of operations, Jack.”

“Interesting,” Jack said, doing some quick calculations in his head. Gabe Alonso had disappeared a week ago, which would make Courtney killing him difficult if he was in Ireland at the time. Possibly the partner had done it. Walpole? He voiced this to Bennett-Walsh, who had no answer.

“Their lab men went through the place and came away empty. Not even a single fingerprint.”

“That’s significant in itself.”

“Are there any photos of Thomas Courtney available?”

“Our only one was sent to you along with our file as promised.”

“Excellent. I’ve been out of the game for a while, but I assume you have facial recognition programs available over there.”

“Indeed. They’re not completely accurate, but they’ve proven quite useful in several cases. Would you like me to check and see if Courtney’s been abroad recently?”

“Absolutely. An FBI agent connected with the case was killed a week ago. Given the date of his death and your Mrs. Callahan’s statement about seeing someone at the house four days ago, we’ve got a pretty big hole here.”

“It might not have been Courtney at all at the house.”

“True, but assuming someone else just happened to be there by coincidence doesn’t help us, particularly since your men found no evidence of fingerprints. There’s no reason for that unless they were cleaning up after themselves.”

Bennett-Walsh processed this for a moment then said, “Do you know, Jack, every so often this job is actually fun.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Do you still box?”

The question caught Jack by surprise, then he smiled. He shouldn’t have been shocked Bennett-Walsh had checked him out. He made a mental note to do the same.

“Not for quite some time,” Jack said. “My last match was in the Marines shortly before I mustered out.”

“Win or lose?”

“It went the distance. I got a decision on points, not to mention a very sore jaw. You?”

“I did a bit of boxing at Leeds College and in the Royal Navy. I still belong to an athletic club near Wimbledon. Every now and then I’ll step back in the ring to shake the rust off. If you ever make it over here, you can come as my guest.”

“To box?”

“If you wish.”

Jack thought for a few seconds, then asked, “What division?”

“Light heavyweight. You?”

“Hm, I might have to struggle to make weight,” Jack said. “Would you settle for dinner and a hardy round of golf?”

“Good God, man. Golf?”

“The worst that can happen with golf is you wind up looking for your ball. You don’t spend several days trying to remember where you live.”

Bennett-Walsh laughed. “And I thought you Yanks were tough. Golf it is then. Loser buys dinner. I’ll ring you back.”

L
enny Walpole and his new friend, a man he believed to be a movie special effects coordinator named Rick, had just finished an early breakfast in Virginia-Highlands and were walking back to the Clairmont Hotel. Lenny couldn’t remember the last time he had pancakes and bacon. Years, probably. A sharp breeze was blowing down Ponce de Leon Avenue. Lenny pulled his jacket tighter and ran his fingers lovingly over the material, scarcely believing it was his. Rick had bought the jacket for him last night, along with a scarf, gloves, and a combination lock. Break-ins at the Clairmont tended to be a common occurrence. While most rooms had locks on the doors, they could be opened with a credit card or a sharp kick. For the most part, thieves were after the occupant’s stash, though it wasn’t unknown for clothing and electronics to disappear. Even eyeglasses weren’t immune. Basically, anything that wasn’t nailed down and could be sold, pawned, or traded for drugs was fair game.

Instead of putting safes in the rooms, the Clairmont’s solution was to furnish metal foot lockers, which they rented out for a nominal fee. The lockers fit nicely in a closet. Residents were expected to furnish their own lock.

“I hope I don’t forget the combination,” Lenny said.

“Just write it on a piece of paper and stick it in your shoe,” Wesley told him. “That’s what we did in the army.”

“I didn’t know you were in the army, Rick.”

“Four years. We had lockers just like you, except they went lengthways at the foot of our bunk. The locks were handy in case you got into it with someone.”

It was obvious Lenny wasn’t following, so Rick explained. “Locks and socks. Put a combination lock in your sock and swing it and it makes a hell of a weapon. It works fine at the end of a belt, too. Sometimes a sock can tear.”

“I’d never have thought of that, Rick. Is that what you did?”

Wesley shrugged. “Once or twice.”

“Wow. You could really hurt someone like that. Maybe even kill them.”

“That’s the point. I mean, you don’t go looking for trouble, but you can’t let someone push you around or get away with stealing your stuff. If they know they’re in for a fight, they won’t come back for seconds so quick.”

“I’ll remember that. It’s just I’m not very brave.”

“Everyone gets scared. How you deal with it is what counts. Anyone who says they’re not afraid is a liar.”

“You don’t seem like anything could frighten you,” Lenny said.

“I’m no different. There was one guy in our outfit, a big dumb kid named Kevin who had a mean streak a mile wide. I was the new guy. He started in with the jokes right away. I didn’t react figuring he’d run out of steam. Of course, that didn’t happen.”

Wesley paused to let a gay couple walking hand in hand pass them. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, shook his head, and continued. “After the jokes, he started ‘accidentally’ bumping into me. When he couldn’t get a rise, it only made him madder. One day in the chow line, he reaches over and takes the dessert off my tray. His mates thought that was hysterical . . . until I took the sock and lock I’d been carrying out of my back pocket and started pounding him. It took three NCOs to pull me off.”

“What happened?” Lenny asked, wide eyed.

“We both went to the brig. Well . . . I went. He went to the infirmary first. They put him back together.”

“And you never had trouble again?”

“No, he beat the shit out of me when we got out. I returned the favor with a shovel. Caught him full in the face coming out of the
barracks. That cost me another sixty days in the hole. After that, we got along fine.”

“Gee.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret. All the time I was hitting that dumb sonofabitch, I was scared to death. The bottom line is you don’t control your fear, it’ll control you.”

“It’ll control you,” Lenny repeated. “I’ll try to remember that, Rick. I’m so lucky to have met you.”

Wesley liked the little man. Under other circumstances, he could see them hanging out together. Maybe exploring a new city, like Rio. It had been several years since he worked with a partner. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if what was being said was pure bullshit. It was a shame he’d have to kill him.

“I feel that way too,” Wesley said. “You’ve done a great job. We looked at yesterday’s rushes and there are some really good shots. The director was impressed.”

“What are rushes?”

“Daily raw footage. The editor and director use them to decide how the final scene will look.” Wesley was pleased with himself for remembering that. He’d read it in a magazine several months ago.

“Did he say anything about the laptop?”

“The director? No. I told you that’s the property manager’s job.”

“Right, sorry. It’s hard to keep track of everyone. Did he mention it?”

“Haven’t seen him. I’ll try to cover for you, but if it becomes a problem, we’ll have to return it. These people have so much money they’ll probably write it off as missing in action and buy another.”

Lenny asked, “Are they still expensive? They used to be, but that was a long time ago. I figured maybe the prices might have come down.”

Wesley shrugged. “A couple hundred bucks, I guess.” He could see the wheels turning in Lenny’s mind trying to figure out how much cocaine or crack he could buy with it, or whatever it was he was addicted to. Totally disgusting.

“So are you ready for your performance today?”

“Sure,” Lenny said. “It’s kind of windy though, don’t you think?”

Wesley checked the sky. It looked like the rain would hold off. All he needed was for Lenny to make a show if it for an hour or two.
There was no way the cops wouldn’t be watching. In fact, he was counting on it. This time, they wouldn’t be so quick to empty those buildings again. According to last night’s news, the evacuation and mobilization of emergency services had cost the city more than half a million dollars. Nobody was looking to be embarrassed a second time. Beautiful. Father Mike was always right.

Wesley believed he heard his cellphone buzz. He excused himself and stepped into a doorway, explaining it was Brooks, their director, calling.

Can we trust this man, boy-o?

Of course not. He’s a junkie. But we can control him. As long as he thinks there’s a chance for drugs, he’ll go along.

Carrot on a stick, you’re sayin’?

Yes, Father.

You realize he’s seen your face?

What difference will that make if he’s dead?

What difference indeed?

*

At two o’clock that afternoon, Corporal Jim Fillet called Jack to say, “The fly boys are back.”

Jack motioned for Milner to pick up the extension. They were at headquarters reviewing the files Bennett-Walsh had sent. Jack inquired if Fillet was alone and was told his partner, Charly Handler, and a third member of the Ghost Squad were also observing. Per Jack’s instructions, they were concentrating not so much on the model planes but on whether Walpole and Shackleford had made contact with Thom Courtney. Photographs of the killer had been passed out to everyone on the Atlanta police force.

Jack also wanted to know where the men lived as they had promptly changed their residence after being released from questioning. According to the report, neither man claimed to know the other, which was probably true. The curious thing was why they were back at all. The Sandman—or Thom Courtney, now that he had a name—knew one of the witnesses was dead. He also knew they would move Rachel Lawrence since the safehouse had been breached and its location was now general knowledge.

Objectively, Jack was inclined to go with Carmine Donofrio’s suggestion to place her in a federal safehouse, except he didn’t trust the man. Donofrio knew his case against Borov was weak, which was why he was pushing so hard for a capture. Nothing wrong in that, provided a capture was feasible. But there was no way he was putting his people at risk. In the judicial system, deals were made all the time, only the thought of this one left his stomach feeling queasy, like when he used to reach for a cigarette first thing in the morning.

Shortly after Rachel and Beth left for the airport, he had received a visit at his home from Janet Newton and Sally Yellen, Atlanta’s SAC, informing him the NSA and Homeland Security both wanted to interview Thomas Courtney. Borov’s activities were drawing a lot of attention, not only on a domestic level, but on an international one.

Janet said, “Bottom line, the White House wants him shut down.”

Deputy director or not, she was a cop, and like most cops, her eyes moved around Jack’s living room taking in the details.

“Tell me about the deal Justice is offering,” Jack said.

“Contact has been made with the IRA on the theory they can get in touch with Courtney. Beyond that, I’m not aware of any details.”

“What about our British friends? Not to mention the French, German, Israeli, and Spanish authorities?”

“Possibly,” Sally Yellen answered. “But that’s not your worry. Whatever the final disposition is, it’s way above our pay grade.”

Jack wished Todd Milner had been present to hear that. It was his agent who’d been murdered.

“We have less than seventy-two hours to the grand jury,” Janet said. “Can you protect the witness adequately?”

“I think so. She’s with Detectives Stafford and Sturgis at the moment.”

The deputy director’s face was grim when she asked, “What about capturing the Sandman?”

“That, I’m less confident of, but we’re trying.”

Sally Yellen went on to tell him Donofrio was on the warpath and had actually called her at home last night. “He said you interfered with the deputy marshal.”

“He’s full of shit. Rachel Lawrence wasn’t under arrest and she’s not in witness protection,” Jack said. “Therefore she had a right to
come and go as she pleased. Someone gives me a legitimate order, I’ll see it’s executed. Frankly, I thought getting her out of town was a good idea.”

The SAC had been feeding Marta dog treats from a dish. “She really likes these, huh?”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t understand when they’re gone,” Jack said.

“Wh . . . what?” she said, with a panicked look on her face.

Janet told her, “He’s kidding. Jack has a quirky sense of humor. Why did you name her Marta? That’s so odd.”

“Some idiot abandoned her as a pup on the elevated platform at the Dunwoody Station. I couldn’t see leaving her there and I didn’t know her name. I just said, ‘C’mon, Marta girl . . .’ and she followed me.”

Janet shook her head and smiled. “But Mom, the puppy followed me home.”

Jack smiled and said, “Something like that.”

After more discussion, he promised to keep them updated. Sally Yellen, clearly not used to being around dogs, eased sideways out of her chair and quickly made her way to the door. Janet gave him a reproachful look and followed her out.

*

That afternoon, Jack was reviewing the meeting in his mind when Todd Milner’s voice pulled him back to the present. They were in the Atlanta police department and the agent had been reading the Sandman’s file Bennett-Walsh had sent.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“This information on Courtney makes quite a story.”

Milner glanced around to make sure no one was looking and lit a cigarette. Officially, the department was a nonsmoking area, a fact several detectives routinely ignored. At times, you could actually see a haze hanging in the air.

“It does,” Jack agreed.

“You find it helpful?”

“To some extent. It’s vogue for profilers to try to understand what makes a killer tick in the hope we’ll uncover the key to their psyche and how to stop them before they kill again.”

“I thought you’d be its biggest proponent.”

“I’m not saying profiling isn’t useful,” Jack said. “It is. To me, it’s only of passing interest to understand how a sociopath became one, unless they’re so caught up in a pattern of behavior even they have no idea what’s driving them. Unfortunately, there’s a subclass that doesn’t fit any mold. They’re intelligent, manipulative, and sadly, enjoy what they do.”

“Enjoy?”

“Like you and I enjoy doing our job. Knowing they grew up with a promiscuous mother or a drunken uncle or were victimized by a pedophile priest is all well and good. But if you speak to the crowd at the prison weight pile doing hard time, even they don’t blame society as the reason they’re behind bars.”

“Interesting,” Milner said.

“In one of the Batman flicks, Alfred, that’s Bruce Wayne’s butler, tells him, ‘Some men just want to see the world burn.’ We don’t have to understand the Sandman; we just have to shut him down. And between you and me, at this point I don’t care much how we do it.”

Milner watched the ash form on his cigarette for several seconds, then nodded to himself and left.