BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
Brixton walked to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts to collect his thoughts and plan his next move, if there was one. He took one of three weather-beaten outdoor tables, using some napkins to clean off the chair before sitting down with a large regular.
Halfway through his coffee, with no other option, he called the number for the man he’d come to know as Panama.
“Brixton,” the man said, by way of greeting.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Because I don’t recognize this number. You’re using a burner.”
“I am.”
“And you’re in New York—Brooklyn, it looks like.”
Brixton didn’t bother asking Panama how he knew that. “Know what the weather’s like up here?”
“Give me a second…”
“Don’t bother. Give me an update on those schematics instead.”
“I would if I could. But so far we’re drawing a blank.”
“What happened to that unlimited access to everything you told me you had?”
“Meaningless. The one thing I can tell you is that they’ve been tampered with, just enough to keep us from identifying what we’re looking at. So far, we’re looking at around a thousand possibilities.”
“You haven’t been able to narrow it down?”
“We started at fifty thousand. Whoever altered those plans knew exactly what they were doing. Next best thing to spontaneous combustion, in the event the wrong person opened that mailbox. To say we’re in the dark would be putting it mildly.”
Brixton shouldn’t have been surprised. “Then allow me to shed some light. That number scrawled at the bottom of those schematics you found in Brian Kirkland’s mailbox was a federal prisoner ID.”
Panama didn’t respond right away.
“Nearest facility to your location,” Panama said finally, “would be the Metropolitan Detention Center.”
“That’s where she is. Sister Mary Alice Rose.”
“Did you say Sister?”
“She’s a nun.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Convicted, or pled guilty, to federal trespassing charges.”
“How’d you come by this information?” Panama asked sharply.
“I do have a source or two.”
“And you decided to pursue this on your own, without alerting me?”
“I’m alerting you now,” Brixton told him.
“A while after you learned something you should have made me aware of immediately.”
“I’m still trying to figure out if I can trust you.”
“Likewise, Brixton, and this doesn’t represent a positive step in that direction.”
“Why would Kirkland have the federal prison ID number for a nun?” Brixton asked Panama.
“The better question is what she’s doing in federal prison in the first place.”
“She’s eighty-five, incarcerated for two years already on that trespassing beef.”
“Give me a second.”
Brixton did, and it stretched into a minute.
“She’s not in my system,” Panama said, when he came back on.
“Maybe you spelled her name wrong.”
“I’m not talking about the federal inmate database, I’m talking about my system, one accessible by a select few, listing persons of interest.”
“Because they’re dangerous?”
“Because they’re persons of interest, Brixton, for one reason or another. Persons we’ve got eyes on, have wired, or are on our radar for one reason or another. Come on, you’re supposed to be a pro. Figure it out.”
Brixton felt a layer of sweat beginning to work its way through his shirt, making him wonder if he should have opted for iced coffee instead of hot. But it was more than just the temperature of the coffee that had suddenly left him unsettled.
“You’ve got your own people. What do you need me for?”
“Because you are one of my people. Now. And you were motivated, already wound up when we met on the waterfront. All I had to do was point you in the right direction.”
Being more of a “fixer” than a spymaster, Panama wouldn’t have troops of his own to call upon. Instead, he would rely on the likes of Brixton to do his dirty work, because Brixton was professional while being disposable at the same time.
“Do your job, Brixton,” he finished.
“My job?”
“You’ve been waiting for this opportunity for five years, since your daughter died in that suicide bombing. Your greatest misfortune was not meeting me sooner. So focus. I’m going to make a call. Go back to the facility in one hour and ask for Captain Donovan.”
“Captain Donovan,” Brixton repeated, committing the name to memory.
“He’s my guy there. This isn’t the first time I’ve needed to arrange an ex parte meeting with a prisoner, just the first nun. Donovan will make the proper arrangements. If she’s there, he’ll make sure you get your meeting.”
“She’s there, all right. The question is why they would make Sister Mary Alice disappear within the system.”
“So she wouldn’t be in a position to speak to somebody like you. Or me. Which means there’s something they don’t want her telling anyone.”
“Aren’t you one of the ‘they’?” Brixton asked Panama.
“If I was, we wouldn’t be talking right now, would we? Stay in the system too long and it rots you to the core. Just ask Brian Kirkland.”
“A difficult task, under the circumstances.”
“That was my point, Brixton. And here’s another one: I don’t have to tell you what it means to be on the radar of a man like the late Mr. Kirkland.”
“Speaking of which, can you text me his picture to this number.”
“Why?”
“I’m playing a hunch,” Brixton said, not elaborating further.
“Doesn’t matter anyway, because there aren’t photos of men like Kirkland on file. He’s a ghost, remember?”
“A dead ghost, remember? You told me his body had been recovered. So you’ll be able to get me his photo after all.”