Edge (6 page)

Ryan now said, “Look, I'm just a cop handling some routine nonviolent cases. No terrorists, no Mafia, no conspiracies.” He sipped more of the coffee, snuck a look at the doorway and added two
more sugars, stirring quickly. “Agent Fredericks said this guy needed the information, whatever it is, by Monday night? There's nothing I'm working on that has a deadline like that. In fact, I'm in a down period now. For the past week or so, I'm mostly on some departmental administrative assignment. Budget. That's all. If I thought there was something to it, I'd let you know. But there just isn't. A mistake,” he repeated.

“I had a principal last year I was protecting.” He hadn't invited me to sit but I did anyway, on one of the swivel stools. He remained standing. “I spent five days playing cat and mouse with a hitter—a professional killer—who'd been hired to take him out. It was all a complete mistake. The hitter had been given the wrong name. But he would have killed my principal just the same. In this case, it isn't a hitter who's after you, it's a lifter. You ever heard that term?”

“I think. An interrogator, right? A pro.”

Close enough. I nodded. “Now, a hitter's one thing. Mistake or not, you'd be the only one at risk. But a lifter . . . he'll target your family, anything to get an edge on you—some leverage to force you to tell him what he wants. By the time he realizes it's a mistake, someone close to you could be seriously hurt. Or worse.”

Considering my words. “Who is he?”

“His name's Henry Loving.”

“Former military? Special ops?”

“No. Civilian.”

“In a gang? Organized crime?”

“Not that we could find.”

In fact, we didn't know much about Henry Loving, other than he'd been born in northern Virginia,
left home in his late teens and had maintained little contact with most of his family. His school records were missing. The last time he'd been arrested was when the sentence involved juvenile detention. A week after he was released the magistrate in the case quit the bench for reasons unknown and left the area. It might have been a coincidence. But I, for one, didn't think so. Loving's court and police files vanished at the same time. He worked hard to hide his roots and protect his anonymity.

I looked out the window once more. Then, after a brief conspiratorial pause and a glance into the still-empty hall, I continued, speaking even more softly, “But there's something else I have to say. This is completely between us?”

He gripped the coffee he'd lost his taste for.

I continued, “Henry Loving has successfully kidnapped at least a dozen principals to interrogate them. Those are just the cases we know about. He's responsible for the deaths of a half dozen bystanders too. He's killed or seriously injured federal agents and local cops.”

Ryan gave a brief wince.

“I've been trying . . . our organization and the Bureau have been trying for years to collar him. So, okay, I'm admitting it: Yes, we're here to protect you and your family. But you're a godsend to us, Detective. You're a decorated cop, somebody who's familiar with tactical response, with weapons.”

“Well, it's been a few years.”

“Those skills never go away. Don't you think? Like riding a bicycle.”

A modest glance downward. “I do get out to the range every week.”

“There you go.” I could see a change in his dark eyes. A bit of fire in them. “I'm asking for your help in getting this guy. But we can't do it here. Not in this house. Too dangerous for you and your family, too dangerous for your neighbors.”

He tapped his pistol. “I'm loaded with Glasers.”

Safety bullets. Powerful rounds that can kill, but they won't penetrate Sheetrock and injure bystanders. They're called suburb slugs.

“But Loving won't be. He'll come in with M4s or MP-5s. It'll be carnage. There will be collateral damage.”

He was considering all that I'd said. His eyes took in the dirty dishes, seemed to notice them for the first time. “What're you suggesting?”

“You, another officer and I'll form the guard detail. We'll get you and your family into a safe house that'll give us a defensive advantage over Loving. My people and the Bureau'll try to take him on the street or his hidey-hole, if they can find him. But if he gets through, and he could, I'll need you. I have a safe house in mind that'll be perfect.” I was speaking very softly now, making clear that what I was asking was off the record.

“You sound like you've been up against this guy before.”

I paused. “I have, yes.”

As he debated, a female voice came from the hallway: “Ry, those men're still out there. I'm getting—”

She turned the corner and stopped quickly, glancing at me with narrowed brown eyes. I recognized her face immediately from the photos duBois had uploaded to me. Joanne Kessler. In running
shoes, jeans and a dark zippered sweater sprouting a few snags, Joanne had a handsome, though not pretty or exotic, face. She got outside a lot, sun wrinkles and tan, gardening, I guessed, from the short nails, two of which were broken. She didn't seem athletic, although unlike her husband she was slim. The hair was dark blond, frizzy and long, pulled into a ponytail. She wore glasses, which were stylish, but the lenses were thick, a reminder of her prior career. If anybody looked like a statistician for the Department of Transportation, it was Joanne Kessler.

Her face had registered a moment of shock seeing me—apparently she hadn't heard me arrive—and then went completely blank. Not stony or cold in anger. She was numb—a bookish woman, I guessed, who'd been thrown by these events.

“This is Agent Corte. He works with the Justice Department. He's a bodyguard.”

I didn't correct Ryan about my title or employer. I shook her limp hand and offered a momentary smile. Her eyes remained uninvolved.

“Mrs. Kessler—”

“Joanne.”

“You're familiar with the situation?”

“Ry told me there's been some mixup. Somebody thought he was being threatened.”

I glanced at Ryan, who tipped his head in response.

I kept a calm visage and said to Joanne, “There may be a mixup, yes, but the fact is that there's no doubt a man has been hired to get information from your husband.”

Her face deflated. She whispered, “You think we really might be in danger?”

“Yes.” I explained about lifters and Henry Loving. “A freelance interrogator,” I summarized.

“But you don't mean he tortures people or anything like that, do you?” Joanne asked softly, her eyes eerily emotionless as she stared at her husband.

I said, “Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”

“
SOME LIFTERS BRIBE
,
some threaten, some blackmail with embarrassing information,” I explained. “But the man who's after Ryan, yes, specializes in physical extraction.”

“‘Physical extraction,'” Joanne muttered. “‘Specializes.' You make it sound like he's a lawyer or doctor.”

I said nothing. In this line you look for anything to help you do your job. It's like the games I play—board games exclusively. I like to see my opponent. I learn a lot, noting body language, verbal language, eye contact, clothing. Even breathing patterns. I had to convince the Kesslers that
they
needed
me.
I made a decision based on what I'd learned just now. I spoke to them both, though directed most of my attention to the wife.

I said evenly, “Loving's low-tech. Usually he uses sandpaper and alcohol on sensitive parts of the body. Doesn't sound too bad but it works real well.”

I tried not to picture the crime scene photos of the body of my mentor, Abe Fallow. I wasn't very successful.

“Oh, God,” Joanne whispered and lifted her hand to her narrow lips.

“A lifter's basic technique is ‘getting an edge,' as
in getting the advantage over you. In one job where I was protecting someone from him, Loving was going to break in and torture a child right in front of the father he wanted information from.”

“No,” Joanne gasped. “But . . . Amanda. We have a daughter. This is . . .” Her eyes swung from one part of the room to another, then settled on the sink and the dirty dishes. Almost urgently, she stepped forward, grabbed a pair of yellow kitchen gloves, pulled them on and twisted the hot water faucet open wide. This happened a lot, principals focusing on—sometimes obsessing over—the little things. Things they can control.

Ryan said, “We should do what Agent Corte says. Get out of the house for a little while.”

“Leave?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just a precaution.”

“Now?”

“That's right. As soon as possible.”

“But where? A hotel? One of our friends' . . . We're not packed. Leave now?”

“You just need to take a few things. And you'd go to one of our safe houses. It's not far away. It's a nice place.” I wasn't more specific about the location. I never was. I didn't blindfold principals before I drove them to a safe house and they could probably figure out some general idea of where it was located but I never told anybody the address. “Now, if I could ask you to pack your—”

“Amanda,” Joanne interrupted and, perhaps forgetting she'd mentioned it before, said, “We have a daughter. She's sixteen. Ry! Where is she? Is she back from school yet?”

Principals often slipped into a hyperactive mode,
and their minds jumped from thought to thought. At first I guessed she'd forgotten it was Saturday morning but it turned out the girl was taking a computer course for extra credit at a nearby community college on weekends.

“I heard her come in a half hour ago,” Ryan said.

Joanne was staring at the bright yellow gloves. She tugged them off, twisted the faucet closed. “I'm thinking . . .”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“I don't want her there, Amanda, I mean. I don't want her with us at that safe house.”

“But she's as much at risk as Ryan is. So are you . . . what I was saying earlier, about the edge Loving wants.”

“No, please,” she said.

It seemed important to Joanne that the girl be separated from them. I recalled that Amanda was Ryan's alone and I wondered why the Kesslers had not had any children. Maybe he'd had a vasectomy during his first marriage or maybe Joanne had been unable to conceive or maybe they'd simply chosen not to have a family together. Preferring to know all I can about my principals, I consider information like this. It can make a difference. Joanne stared at the dishes and put down the gloves.

Ryan was considering this too. “I agree. Let's get her someplace out of harm's way.” I realized he'd be thinking of what I'd mentioned—about the possibility of a firefight to take Loving.

Joanne said, “
We'll
go to the safe house. But she goes somewhere else. It's the only way I'll agree.”

Then Ryan said to his wife, “You and Amanda go.”

“No,” she said adamantly. “I'm staying with you.”

“But—”

“I'm staying.” She took his hand.

I stepped to the window once more and looked out. Joanne noted this, the same way her husband had earlier, and she was uneasy with my apparent concern. I turned back. “I don't mind in theory but I don't have enough people to put your daughter in a separate safe house. Can you send her away somewhere? As long as the place she goes to has no connection to you or your family at all and her name isn't on travel records or credit-card purchases.”

Loving and other expert lifters managed liberal access to data-mined information.

“Bill,” Joanne said suddenly.

“Who?”

Ryan said, “William Carter. He's a family friend. He was in the department with me. Retired about ten years ago. She could stay with him.”

I wondered if Loving could track him down because of his past association with Ryan. “Was he your partner, were you ever assigned together? Is he Amanda's godfather?”

“No. Just a friend. We were never on the same detail. He's got this place on a lake in Loudoun County, near White's Ferry. They could go there. Amanda likes him. He's sort of her uncle.” He reiterated, “And he's a former cop.”

“You're absolutely sure nobody could place you two together? You don't own anything together, a fishing boat, a car? Ever loaned each other money that was part of a public filing, bought property from each other?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Can he be here in ten minutes?”

“Five. He lives a neighborhood away. He was going to the game this afternoon but he'll change his plans on a dime for something like this.”

I opened my bag and withdrew my laptop. I booted it up and began typing commands into a new window. I examined the information scrolling past on our organization's secure database. Nothing about William Carter or his career or life circumstances gave me any concern. My next search was about the girl. Amanda Kessler was a typical teenager, active on Facebook, MySpace and blogs but the personal information was minimal. I was relieved at that. Social networking sites have made our jobs as shepherds nightmares, given all the personal details people threw out into the ozone. I noted too that Amanda had never posted anything about William Carter or his vacation house or Loudoun County.

I was satisfied that it would be virtually impossible for Loving to find any connection. “Call him.” I handed Ryan a mobile, a flip phone, black, a little larger than your standard Nokia or Samsung.

“What's this?”

“A cold phone. Encrypted and routed through proxies. From now on, until I tell you otherwise, use only this phone.” I collected theirs and took out the batteries.

Ryan examined the unit—Joanne stared at it like it was a poisonous snake—then he made the call and had a conversation with Carter.