Acoustic Shadows (24 page)

‘And I think you’re right,’ Thiery agreed. ‘We saw him at the hotel. Why was he there, if he isn’t working with them?’

‘Exactly. I think he went there to meet them, tell them where I was. I think he sent the killers to the house in Lake Wales.’

‘ Let’s think … What’s his story going to be? He’ll probably say he was tracking the Esperanzas, because he felt they were a threat to you. It’s a viable story.’

Thiery glanced at Millie. She looked empty, as if she’d told her sins to the priest in the booth and now awaited penance.

‘You know,’ said Thiery, after stumbling onto a small epiphany, ‘that’s why I ran with you: I couldn’t take the chance they might give you to him.’

She reached over and patted Thiery on the leg, tears running down her face, dripping off her chin. A reassurance of trust, perhaps for herself as much as for him. How long had it been since she could trust anyone?

‘I’m so sorry about your friend, the FBI lady,’ she consoled.

Thiery nodded, but said nothing.

There was a brief period of silence, throughout which Thiery and Millie took turns staring blankly out the window, looking for answers they knew would not come.

‘Now what?’ she asked the inevitable question.

He wanted to give her a great answer, give her something to encourage her after all she’d been through, but, he couldn’t. ‘I … I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘But, I need to make some phone calls, and I don’t want to use my phone. I turned it off so no one could trace it, but I have to talk to my boss.’

‘Is he a man you can trust?’

Thiery looked into her eyes. He could see – and understand – why she could not trust anyone, anymore.

‘Yes’ he assured her. ‘He’s a good guy.’

Millie nodded and reached across the cushions of the couch for her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, producing a flip phone, ‘use mine. It’s a WITSEC phone. It needs to be charged, but it can’t be traced.’

Thiery took the phone from her, and sipped some more beer. It was warm, and he’d lost his taste for it. Plus, he reminded himself, he needed to keep sharp. It might be a while before he could arrange the help and protection they would need. ‘Why don’t you try to get some rest?’ he suggested.

Millie looked up at Thiery and the slight, but reassuring smile on his face. ‘Okay,’ she said, feeling a sudden wave of gratitude.

She stood, found a restroom, and showered, feeling for the first time in years that she could do that and not worry about someone tearing down the curtain and shooting or stabbing her to death, like in
Psycho
. She stumbled into the bedroom, asleep on her feet, and fell into a bed that held her like a mother’s arms. There were still demons out there, and she would deal with them, later. For now, the demons could go fuck themselves.

A mobile command trailer was set up in Orlando in the parking lot of the Gaylord Palms. Inside were the chiefs and assistant chiefs of all the local police departments: Orlando PD, Orange, and Calusa County Sheriff’s Offices, even Chief Dunham from Sebring sat in. Now, agents from the FBI and backup deputies from the US Marshal’s Office joined the assembly and an IAP – Incident Action Plan – was formulated.

Moral gave a debriefing of events, making them up as he went along, an army of law enforcement officers with no reason to doubt the veracity of his story bobble-heading along. He pulled information out of his ass, using the past history of the New York Albanian crime syndicate as the target bad guys and completely leaving the Esperanzas out of the equation. If, or when, it was discovered he was fabricating the story, he would simply claim his intel must have been bad and adjust the truth from there.

Sheriff’s deputies and local PDs would be in charge of roadblocks and, if a hold-up site was identified, would be tasked with going door to door. The US Marshals and FBI would head research and planning. A target area of one hundred miles was set up, and a statewide APB was issued for Logan’s Porsche Cayenne. No one mentioned the black town car Julio Esperanza and his driver had used in their escape. The local cops were the first to adjourn and hit the roads, a majority of them with itchy fingers, eager to take down someone who may have killed an FBI agent.

The Assistant Director of the US Marshal’s Service phoned Moral, who was all too eager to fill him in on current events. Assistant Director Ron Sales listened to the report as he peered out the window of his Washington, DC office. It was mid-afternoon, and he’d had a busy morning. Sitting next to him, listening along via speaker phone, were Denise Germain, Assistant Director of Investigations, and Michael Cammarata, Assistant Director of Witness Security. Moral was not aware of their presence. Sales wanted it that way.

‘What’s going on down there, Robert?’ Sales had asked.

‘One of my birds has flown the coop, sir, and she’s caused a lot of trouble doing it,’ Moral had replied. The air conditioning in the mobile command trailer was set to freezing, but Moral’s collar was soaked with sweat, his tie loose to allow him to swallow better, which he did abundantly, though his mouth was as dry as an exhaust pipe.

‘That’s Erica Weisz, yes?’ Sales asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘She was supposed to testify against the Esperanzas next week, right?’

‘Well, yes, sir,’ Moral answered, ‘but, uh, I don’t see them involved here, sir. I … believe Kadriovski’s people are our real concern.’

Sales looked at his fellow assistant directors, his eyes silently questioning them. Germain shook her head, meaning, ‘no way’, Cammarata shrugged his shoulders.

‘Why do you think that, Robert?’ prodded Sales.

Moral cleared his throat and searched for the right lie. ‘Because, one of the shooters shot in the lobby at the hotel was a known hitter from the Eastern European block,’ he remembered. ‘Name is Anichka Drakoslava.’ He said it slowly, as if reading it, and as if he hadn’t heard it dozens of times before. ‘Maybe you can have intel look her up.’

‘You’re sure about the Esperanzas?’

‘I really don’t see a connection here,’ he pleaded as much as offered confirmation. The back of his shirt was soaked as if he’d just completed six sets of tennis with the Williams sisters on a clay court in August.

‘Hmmmn,’ Sales murmured. ‘Wonder why the Albanians would want her? Especially if they knew she was testifying against the Esperanzas. Seems they would appreciate the competition taken off the field.’

‘Can’t say, sir.’

‘And you told the media, you think this FDLE agent, what’s his name, Thiery? You think he’s dirty?’

‘It’s just a hunch, sir,’ Moral answered. ‘I can’t even begin to say what his involvement is, but both he and the Weisz woman were shooting at me when I arrived at the hotel. She even managed to wing me, sir.’

Sales could barely contain his scorn for Moral in front of the ADs in his office. ‘That’s too bad, Robert,’ he consoled, trying to make it sound sincere. ‘Hope it heals up quick. Maybe we should bring you in, get you some medical treatment.’

Moral protested. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see this through. I’m in it pretty deep, now. I know the players and would like to wrap it up, find my witness, and see what her involvement is. It’s really my responsibility, sir.’

‘What brought you down there in the first place?’

‘Well, when Weisz got shot at the school, I felt it was my responsibility to come check on her, change her safe haven, if I needed to. I moved her to Lake Wales, but it was compromised, too. Couple of pros from Mexico hit it but were killed on the scene.’

‘And how did that compromise happen?’

‘Again, sir, I don’t know. I think Weisz might have been working with one of the syndicates, maybe.’

‘Uh, huh,’ Sales responded, acting convinced. ‘Okay, then, Robert. You’ve got some field people down there, now. Why don’t you stay in the command post, let them do what they need to in the field. You kick back for a bit; maybe advise the locals what we need from them. One of our directors will be down in a few hours to help you sort things out. Okay?’

Moral was chewing on the inside of his mouth and almost bit a hole through his cheek. ‘Uh, sure, sir. Whatever you say. But, I’d like to get out there and see this thing through.’

‘I understand, Robert, but you’ve already been wounded. You’re doing a hell of a job. Now, just sit back and advise till we get there. That’s a directive, Bob. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Okay, sir, uh, hey listen, it’s still pretty busy here. I’ve got to debrief a few more agencies, so I’ll sign off for now.’

‘Sure, sure. We’ll see you soon.’ Sales hung up and looked to his associates. ‘Well?’ he asked them. ‘What do you think?’

‘Should we speak openly, sir?’ asked Germain, and nodded toward a man sitting silently in the back of the room.

Sales acknowledged Miko Tran. ‘Of course,’ he answered Germain. ‘Agent Tran has the highest security clearance. He also brought us information about “Diceman1960”. Care to comment on that, Agent Tran?’

Tran sat up and took a deep breath before answering. He was a young, smartly dressed professional; his jet black Asian hair was perfectly groomed, and surrounded what could’ve been a male model’s face: high cheek bones set in a triangular face with a complexion that was flawless. His dark, intense eyes were still red after hearing of Sara Logan’s death. But, true to his word to her, he had doggedly pursued the identity attached to the email address of “Diceman1960”.

‘I was able to go through his office PC this morning, sir,’ Tran stated, ‘and hacked into his home computer. On that hard drive, I found links to emails from “Diceman1960” to the email address of David Edward Coody through an anarchist site called “blackenedflag.org”. I also found numerous searches for gun caches, including one that located the cache for sale from the Kentucky State Police auction. Some of the guns used at the Travis Hanks Elementary School shooting were from that cache.’

Germain looked at Sales. ‘That answers my question,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you continue, Agent Tran?’

Tran nodded. ‘I found hundreds of links to various gambling sites Robert Moral used. If I may use conjecture, I would say it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he is an habitual gambling addict, which might be a motive for his questionable actions. Additionally, it appears he enticed Coody into buying those guns and assaulting the school.’

He held up a printout of a compilation of emails addressed to Coody, whose address was Apocolypsangel13. ‘From “Diceman1960”,’ he announced before starting to read.
‘Dear Angel, You are right in your thinking. Schools, such as the elementary school near you, produce the little monsters that become our obstructive government and inept leaders, those who embrace liberal ideas and foment anarchy with their complacency. They do not deserve to breathe the same air we do …’
Tran looked up from reading. ‘Shall I go on?’

All three of the directors shook their heads. ‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary, Agent Tran,’ Sales answered on everyone’s behalf. ‘If you could leave copies of your findings with us, we’ll be in touch if we need further clarification. Of course, we ask that you not discuss this case with anyone outside your direct supervisors, especially not the media. Will you agree to that, sir?’

‘You have my word,’ Tran answered, then he nodded, stood and brushed the folds out of his perfectly tailored suit, and left the room.

He had more information, but he didn’t disclose it. He didn’t know any of these people and wasn’t sure which ones he could trust. If some of the other information he uncovered was accurate, it could lead to other assumptions, perhaps other conclusions. Until he could confirm what he’d found, he was going to have to play his cards close to his vest, so to speak. Logan would’ve been proud of him.

In Tran’s absence, Sales turned to Germain and Cammarata. ‘You two get down there and stop Moral,’ he directed. ‘As quietly as you can. This doesn’t need to be a media circus any more than it has been already. Understand?’

‘Of course,’ answered Germain.

Cammarata nodded. ‘Yes, sir’

‘Get him out of there, and let the local authorities take over the investigation, such as it is. We need to pull up stakes and slink back into the woods.’

Germain and Cammarata left the office. It was late in the afternoon, but Sales hoped they could get down to Florida before the news pressed Moral for any more statements.
God damn,
thought Sales.
What a fucking mes
s
!

Reluctantly, Sales picked up the phone and called Bullock.

‘You wanna tell me something, Ron?’ Bullock answered.

‘Jim,’ he began, ‘would you be satisfied if I told you it’s complicated?’

‘Ha! What isn’t?’ he replied. ‘Just use small words, you know, for us dumb state cops down here in Florida?’

‘You were right,’ Sales told his old friend, ‘he’s dirty.’

‘You mean that Moral guy? The one who’s been on the news all day trashing my agent?’

‘The same. But why did your man run?’ Sales asked. ‘Why didn’t he stay on the scene and tell the other cops who he was and what was going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bullock answered. ‘I haven’t talked to him, yet, but I trust him. I’m sure he had his reasons. Maybe he didn’t have proof. Maybe he was afraid Moral would take the woman into his custody and, by the time it was all figured out, Moral would’ve killed her.’

‘I’m sorry, Jim. We’ve all learned a lesson on this one.’

‘Really?’ Bullock asked, leaning forward in his worn desk chair as he wadded up a sheet of paper and tossed it in the trash can across the room. ‘What would that be?’

‘Things like no agency is beyond reproach,’ he explained. ‘And that, sometimes, we need to look at ourselves, outside the good work we think we do, and run some assessments.’

‘Sounds like you’re preparing a press statement.’

‘I understand how that might upset you, Jim, but that
is
part of my job. And it’s a job governed by the Department of Justice and the Attorney General, who, in turn, rely on the President for direction.’

Bullock shook his head. ‘Save the campaign speak, Ron. I just want to get my man out of hot water and back home safe. Can you send me everything you have? On Moral, this Erica Weisz woman, and the Gazmend hit where this all started.’

‘I … can’t do that, Jim,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘You must know that. Some of this information is extremely sensitive, especially relating to the drug cartel in Mexico that she was testifying against. Some of that shit goes up to the AG’s office in case you haven’t been watching the news.’

‘What I know is that, if you don’t send it to me, so I can make some informed decisions, I’m going to the media and telling them there’s a scumbag working for your department who’s responsible for this whole tragedy, and I’m going to do that without the polish you’re trying to put on this thing.’

Sales thought about it for three seconds. ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘But, I’m going to ask you as a friend, Jim, please let us make the statement. We’ve got to inform the AG, and he might want to talk to the President about this before the media gets it. Last I knew, the President still wants to come down and meet the Weisz woman.’

‘Fine,’ Bullock said. ‘I’ll let you do the talking head thing, but I want the background on this guy ASAP. I want to bring my man home. He’s been through enough, already, and so has your witness. You want me to take the guy into custody?’

‘No,’ said Sales, forcefully. ‘I’ve got two directors going down there to do that. Please, just cool your jets and let us clean up our own mess. Can you, please, do that, Jim?’

‘Okay. Sure.’

‘I’m sending the file to you by email, right now. Call if you have questions. And, Jim?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks for being a friend.’

Bullock hung up without saying anything. He turned on his computer and waited for the file to appear.
Why does he need to talk to the Attorney General before this goes public? What’s he not telling me?
Before he could further ponder his many questions, his phone rang. It was the governor.
Shit!
Not now.

‘Hello, Governor,’ he answered, trying to churn up a pleasant, buttery voice, but failing.

‘Hi, Jim,’ said the governor. He sounded subdued, almost humbled. ‘How’s the thing going with Thiery? I saw some coverage on the news. Is he okay?’

‘I think so,’ Bullock said, then repeated. ‘I haven’t talked to him today. My understanding is that he has the woman with him. Turns out she’s in WITSEC.’

‘WITSEC? What’s that?’

‘It’s what the US Marshals call their witness protection programme. Seems the deputy assigned to watch over her gave her up to the bad guys.’

‘Oh my God, Jesus,’ Croll said, then breathed deeply as if he was just punched in the stomach and tried to catch his breath.

‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘I should say not,’ Croll said. ‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

‘No, sir. Can’t say I have.’