Getting Marilyn Jeffers locked up was no problem since the U.S. Attorney had already filed the arrest warrant but her husband was another matter. For him Kane had to go through the booking process which meant generating a completely new set of documents. By the time both Jeffers were safely in their cells and he’d gotten something to eat and returned to the squad room it was half past four and Useless had found a reason to be someplace else. Just as well, Kane thought since he had to go through the paperwork his partner had created and remove any references to the gun.
It’s not like I’m filing a false report, he told himself. I’m just leaving out a couple of details. Pretty damn big details he admitted but at least everything in the amended report would be technically true. Eustace would blow a gasket when he found out but Kane could live with that. Thank God Useless had long since given Kane his password and screen name. Knowing how lazy he was Kane began to wonder if Grant would even check the file at all. After a moment’s thought Greg figured that it was fifty-fifty that Eustace would never know what he had done.
Greg had just returned to his own terminal when Danny Rosewood materialized next to his desk.
“Hi, Agent,” Danny said.
“Hi, Danny,” Kane answered, barely glancing up. Five seconds later Kane felt Danny’s eyes still on him. “Something you need?”
“Uhhh, no,” Danny said continuing to stare. A moment later Rosewood glanced meaningfully toward the door then back at Kane.
What’s that, Lassie? Greg thought. Has something happened? Do you want me to follow you? Danny gave Kane another stare then headed for the door, glancing at Greg over his shoulder halfway to the exit.
Oh, shit! Kane thought. Timmy’s fallen down the well.
Greg caught up with Rosewood in a parking lot leaking the stink of wet tobacco and motor oil, its surface littered with cigarette butts from the nicotine addicts who gathered there to get their fix.
“What’s up, Danny?”
Rosewood looked around then stepped in close. “I got the surveillance tapes from around Mr. Brownstein’s building, like you asked me.” Danny paused and glanced uneasily toward the doors.
“OK, good. And . . . ?”
“Well, I went through them. At first I didn’t notice anything but I looked for people who were there more than once and who didn’t seem to have any business in the neighborhood. That’s when I saw him. At first I didn’t notice him but then I realized that he was changing his appearance. One time he was wearing a parka with the hood up. Another time he had on a wool coat and a baseball cap. It was the same guy in four different outfits. I figured that was suspicious.”
“You figured right but why couldn’t you tell me this upstairs?”
“You remember. . . .” Danny began then shut up and nervously led Kane around the corner when a man in a black overcoat paused just beyond the glass doors and lit up a smoke. “You remember that special job you gave me?” Danny asked in a whisper when he was sure that they were alone.
Kane’s skin began to tingle and he bent in closer. A year ago he had asked Danny to help him in his search for his vanished nephew. It wasn’t Kane’s case. In fact, he had been told by two different law enforcement agencies to stay out of it, as if that was ever going to happen. But he needed help with the tech stuff. He needed someone to run credit card checks, to get copies of bank records and phone LUDs, all of which was exactly what Danny did more or less all day long. And the kid had been more than willing to do the work even though it could mean his job, or worse, if he got caught.
“What do the video recordings from Brownstein’s neighborhood have to do with that?”
“You know I went through the file you gave me and it had pictures of that Ryan Munroe and the two transport officers in it. At first the man from the street outside Mr. Brownstein’s apartment building just seemed familiar somehow but when I blew up the pictures, that’s when I recognized him.”
“Wait a minute!” Kane snapped. “You’re saying that Ryan Munroe was casing Brownstein’s apartment?”
“No, not him. The other one.”
“Jason?”
“No, the other officer, Mearle Farber.”
“The man on the Brownstein video was Mearle Farber? Are you sure?”
“All I can say is that it looked like him. I ran a facial rec analysis. It came up 61%. Given the low resolution of the ATM camera that’s pretty good, so, I think it was probably your guy, and, well, I’m at least 61% sure.”
My guy? My guy is Jason Kane, Greg thought, but if Farber was alive . . . . If Farber was alive and casing a citizen who it looked like was the victim of foul play then the math was as simple as simple could be. With an almost audible click the pieces fell into place inside Kane’s head. If Farber was alive then Ryan Munroe was alive and if they were both alive then Jason Kane was dead and Mearle Farber was the person who had killed him.
* * *
As a rookie Deputy Sheriff barely out of probation Jason Kane expected to be told to drive while Mearle Farber took it easy, so Jason was surprised when Farber held onto the keys and settled in behind the wheel. Jason almost asked “Don’t you want me to drive?” but since Farber was already shoving the key into the ignition it seemed like a pretty stupid question.
Jason had put Ryan Munroe in the back seat and fastened the chain shackling his ankles to the steel ring welded to the cruiser’s floor. Munroe’s wrists were locked in a set of long cuffs which, in turn were attached to the chain binding his legs. There was enough play in the lines so that by bending forward the prisoner could scratch his nose and he could wiggle his ass a foot or so left or right on the vinyl seat but that was about it. Remembering that this man had supplied the gun that had almost taken his uncle’s life Jason had double checked Munroe’s restraints before locking the rear doors.
Sykesville sat halfway between State Highway 26 and Interstate 70 and you could get there by either route. “Which way are we going?” Jason asked as Farber gave the driver’s seat one final adjustment and then idled the cruiser out of the lot.
“You just relax, kid, and leave the driving to me,” Farber told him, never taking his eyes off the road. A few minutes later Farber gunned it up the ramp onto the I-70 and Jason had his answer.
“How come you got this job?” Jason asked once they were on the interstate. “Don’t you normally work out of the Northeast Division?”
“How about you just shut it and watch the scenery,” Farber snapped.
Asshole, Jason thought, then twisted around and checked the prisoner through the wire screen. Eyes front, Munroe sat like a statue in the center of the rear seat. Jason turned away and decided to put his brain in neutral for the rest of the drive.
It took them about twenty minutes to reach the exit for State Highway 32. Farber drove like a robot the whole way. Thank God I’m not partnered with him, Jason thought as they turned onto the two-lane and headed north.
It had been a wet winter and patches of snow grew thick along the highway where it skirted Patapsco Valley State Park. Above them the sky had congealed into a gray foam and it was cold enough that Jason wondered if what came out of the clouds was going to be rain or snow. A few minutes later they were enclosed by walls of trees, on the right side from the state park and an even denser forest from the Wildlife Refuge District on the left. After two miles Farber tapped the brakes and began to drift them over toward the shoulder.
“Feels like we’ve got a flat,” he said slowing carefully on the damp road. Jason straightened up and strained to detect a tremor from a soft tire.
“I don’t feel anything,” he said.
“It’s the right rear,” Farber answered and pulled onto a dirt track that disappeared into the trees. Jason closed his eyes tried to heighten his senses but now they were on the dirt and the cruiser could have had two flat tires and he wouldn’t have known it. Jason glanced at the dashboard but didn’t see a red, “tire low” warning.
“Are you sure? I didn’t notice anything,” Jason said, nervous now that they were into the trees and the highway was almost out of sight behind them. The dirt road took a jog to the right and Jason saw a silver Jeep Cherokee parked at a wide spot fifty feet ahead. “What the hell is–” Jason began, staring at the Jeep, but stopped when he heard the CLACK of Farber’s weapon being cocked.
“Change in plans, kid,” Farber said, his nine-millimeter pointed at Jason’s head.
“How much did he pay you?” Jason blurted out. It was a dumb question, he knew. What difference did it make to him anyway? But a man tends not to do his best thinking when a loaded gun is being pointed at his head. Farber answered anyway.
“Enough. Take it easy and you’ll live through this. You’ll be a little cold back in the trunk but we’ll tell them where to find you once we’re safe. Now, slowly, put your hands on the dash.”
This was the most dangerous time for both men. Jason still had his weapon. If he managed to get it out and started firing inside the car anything could happen. The odds were that Farber would blow him away before he ever got off a shot but there was always the chance that he might get lucky. Comply or fight? If Farber was going to kill him anyway one chance in a hundred was better than no chance at all.
“I’m not going to screw around with you, kid. You’ve got until I count to three. Then I pull the trigger. One.”
Jason tried to find some hint of fear or uncertainty in Farber’s face. He might as well have been looking at a mannequin.
“Two.”
Jason put his palms flat on the dash. Farber reached all the way over and used his left hand to snap a cuff on Jason’s right wrist.
“Keep your hands straight out in front of you and slowly turn to face me.”
Still using his left hand Farber snapped the other handcuff on Jason’s left wrist, then he backed out of the driver’s seat, never taking his gun off Kane. Once outside Farber grabbed the chain linking Jason’s cuffs and pulled him across the seat and out the driver’s door. In an instant he had Jason pinned face down with his knee on the young man’s neck. Strong hands quickly removed Jason’s weapon. A moment later Jason heard the THUNK of the trunk being opened.
“On your feet.” The pressure on Jason’s neck relaxed and he felt himself being hauled upright. A shove sent him stumbling toward the back of the car. “Get into the trunk.”
He’s not going to kill me after all, Jason thought and released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The cruiser’s steel floor was cold as he clambered over coaming and curled down into the trunk. Twisting his face up he saw Farber silhouetted against the dirty sky.
“Sorry, kid,” Farber said. “Nothing personal,” then he centered his gun and fired a bullet through Jason Kane’s brain. Farber took a breath then switched to a two-handed grip for the next two rounds. Guys had lived with a bullet in their heads. Look at the kid’s uncle, still alive and kicking after taking one to the noggin. But no one was coming back from three shots in the center ring. Farber shut the trunk then opened the rear door.
“Clothes, ID and money are in the Jeep,” he said as he unhooked Munroe’s shackles. Munroe stepped out and took a long, deep breath.
“Free air. It’s good to breathe free air again.” Munroe held out his right hand. “Keys.”
No smile, Farber noticed. No thanks either. A cold fish. No emotion. All business, which, Farber figured, was just as it should be. In the real world life didn’t pat you on the head and give you a free lollipop. You did the job and you took what you wanted.
“I’ll be in touch,” Munroe said. “I’m going to have a lot of work that needs to be done.”
“Contact me through the email address that I left with your new ID. And don’t forget the rest of my money.”
“Don’t worry about your second payment. Like I said, I’ve got more work for you.” Munroe turned and walked to the Jeep. Farber had located an abandoned barn where he planned to stash the cruiser until nightfall but first he drove it to within half a mile of the prison where he disconnected the GPS. As far as the Department was concerned he and Kane made it to Sykesville before the car went off the grid.
He had considered and discarded several scenarios for dumping the cruiser from just leaving it parked someplace a hundred miles away to bribing the night-shift guard at a junk yard into crushing it into a cube of scrap iron bound for China. But simpler was always better. He’d found an isolated spot not far from where Liberty Lake turned into the Patapsco river where he could sink the cruiser in thirty feet of water without any witnesses. Yesterday he’d called in sick and stashed a clean car a two mile walk away. He had one of Munroe’s guys pick him up a mile beyond that. He didn’t like involving other people but getting a ride back to town was safer than taking the bus. Besides, even if the guy ever talked, the junker Farber has stashed would be scrap metal long before they started looking anywhere near the place where his ride had picked him up.
Half a million dollars, Farber thought, assuming Munroe paid the second installment, and Farber figured that Munroe would pay it. That was another of the differences between them. If he had been in Munroe’s shoes he would have skipped the country and never looked back. What could he, Farber, do if he didn’t get the rest of his money? Sue? But Munroe wasn’t built that way. He wasn’t an ordinary crook. He had a Cause. He was a man on a mission. Farber had no idea what that mission was beyond some vague grudge against the government, against the idea of there being a government at all, but who the fuck cared? Mearle Farber was a quarter-millionaire and, he thought, he’d soon to be a half millionaire. Whatever crazy schemes Ryan Munroe had were of no interest to him as long as the money kept rolling in.
Farber checked the darkened highway down the hill from the barn where he was parked then quietly pulled the cruiser out into the night.
* * *
“Agent Kane? Agent Kane?” Danny repeated. “Are you all right?”
Kane blinked and the vision of Mearle Farber murdering his nephew faded but did not completely disappear.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled, still in a fog.
“What do we do?” Danny asked.
“Do? About what?”
“About the tape, about this Mearle Farber maybe having something to do with Albert Brownstein?”
“We find him,” Kane said, staring into Danny’s worried face. And then I’ll kill him, he whispered only to himself.