Rising Phoenix (22 page)

Mark Beamon pushed an old lamp off his sofa and twisted the top of his beer. The house was a goddamn disaster. He’d been in Houston for three months and had unpacked the sum total of three boxes and two hanging bags. It was the same story every move, putting off unpacking and buying whatever he needed to survive. It was this procrastination that was responsible for his owning three ironing boards and no less than six electric razors.

The phone rang just as he was cutting into the top of box number four and cursing himself for never marrying. He gratefully tossed the old utility knife on the couch and waded through the packing material strewn across the floor. He got to the phone just before the machine picked up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mark. How you doing?” Tom Sherman’s voice.

“Still trying to settle in. What’s going on with you?”

“Well, I’m knee-deep in it, I guess. Things are nuts around here.”

Beamon pushed himself up onto the counter. “I’ll bet. I’ve been watching the news. This drug thing must have the Director taking oxygen.” He paused for a moment to savor that mental image.

“Any chance you and I could get together, tomorrow?” Sherman asked.

Beamon remained silent.

“You still there, Mark?”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking about hanging up. Tell me you’re not about to get me involved in this fiasco.”

“The media doesn’t have the whole story yet, Mark. I think we could have a serious problem here.”

Beamon knew better than to ask for details. This kind of case was just too tempting. “Geez, Tommy, I’d love to help you guys out, but I’m just the ASAC Houston. I don’t think I’m really qualified to take on something like this.”

“Don’t bust my ass over that, Mark. You know I did the best I could for you.”

“Yeah, I know. Besides, I kind of like it here. It’s sort of a politics-free zone.”

There was a long pause over the line. “The Bureau’s going to get one hell of a black eye over this if we don’t wrap it up quick, Mark.”

Beamon tried unsuccessfully to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. “You know what? Standing here in the middle of some piece of shit Houston suburb, demoted, with my entire life in boxes, I’m having a hard time giving a rat’s ass. I think I’ll let Calahan and Richter take this one.”

“I thought you might say something like that, Mark. So let me put it another way. Do it for me.”

Beamon sighed and jumped down to the kitchen floor, gritting his teeth. Tom Sherman was the best friend he’d ever had. “I fucking hate you.”

“Oh, it’s not gonna be that bad. I’ve gotten you pretty much a free hand here. You’ll be reporting directly to me—Frank’s out of the loop.”

“That must have taken some doing,” Beamon said, genuinely impressed.

“I think the fact that they’re bringing you back tells you exactly how important this investigation is to the Director. He tells me he’s already taking a lot of heat from the White House. You come out here and put an end to this thing fast, and I expect that the Director will let you have his wife”.

Beamon laughed. The Director’s fanatical devotion to his rather unattractive and bitchy wife was a topic of some speculation at the Bureau. Most of it was pointedly unflattering.

“Want to hear the rest of the good news?” Sherman asked.

“I don’t know if I can take any more.”

“I’ve been having trouble renting my town house on Capitol Hill, so it’s yours as long as you’re here. You’ll clean up on per diem.”

Mark nodded into the phone and smiled. Sherman’s trouble in renting his vast D.C. real estate holdings stemmed from the fact that he never listed any of them. His father had owned a number of department stores when he died, and Sherman had inherited them. Apparently he had wanted to be an FBI man since he was six, and as soon as he got in, he turned the operation of the stores over to a close family friend. No one
knew exactly how wealthy he was, though popular theories put his net worth in the fifteen million dollar range. Sherman’s willingness to put up needy agents and their families in any number of half-million-dollar town houses across D.C. hadn’t hurt his popularity.

“You owe me big for this, Tommy. I mean it. Paybacks are going to involve half-naked women, palm fronds, and grapes.”

“Uh-huh. You’re flying TWA tomorrow at 10:06
A.M.
, flight 324. Your ticket’s at the desk. I’ll have someone pick you up at National.”

“Yeah, fine.”

Beamon hung up the phone and sat quietly on the counter for a moment, looking out across the sea of boxes filling his living room. It was a no-win situation, he knew. If he wrapped the case up quickly, Calahan would take as much credit as he possibly could and send his ass back to Houston on the first plane available. And if he blew it, Calahan’d hang him out to dry.

On the bright side, though, it could be one hell of a case.

“Thanks for the ride, Todd,” Beamon said, tugging mightily on a large suitcase wedged in the trunk of the Ford Taurus. The muscular young agent standing next to him grabbed a loop on the side of the bag and freed it effortlessly. Beamon frowned and took it from him, hoping that the moment Todd let go it wouldn’t drop to the ground. He managed to arrest it with an inch to go.

“It’s been a real honor to meet you, sir,” the young man said.

“Good meeting you, too, Todd I imagine I’ll be seeing you around.”

They were standing in the middle of the narrow breezeway that ran under the J. Edgar Hoover Building. The dismal gray facade of what was often referred to as the ugliest building in D.C. wrapped around them, but failed to block the cold wind. Beamon looked around as the car that had brought him pulled slowly away, heading toward the heavy traffic of Ninth Street. He had always liked the building. If it was supposed to be a monument to the man whose name was carved on the front, it was a triumph. Hoover had embodied grace and beauty about as much as a rusty jackhammer. The squat, monochrome bunker really did him justice.

He turned and hurried to the glass doors. It didn’t take long to realize that the thin suit that had been serving him so well in Houston was transparent to the damp midwinter cold of the nation’s capital.

“Mark!” squealed a plump black woman sitting behind the reception desk on the other side of the doors. Beamon insisted that everyone call him by his first name. “Mr. Beamon” had always made him think that his father was standing behind him. Inexplicably, he’d never grown out of the feeling.

“Victoria!” He dropped his heavy bag and leaned over the desk to give her a peck on the cheek. “So how’s your son, darlin’? Is he graduating this year?”

“One more year,” she answered, taking a cursory glance at the credentials that he was holding.

“Does he know what he wants to do when he gets out?”

“He tells me he wants to be a G-man.”

Beamon shook his head and pulled the bag back to his shoulder. Victoria clipped a gold pass to his lapel. “Hopefully he’ll grow out of it.”

Beamon tiptoed into Tom Sherman’s office, putting his finger to his lips when the secretary spotted his approach. Sherman was sitting with the back of his chair to them, looking out the window and dictating a letter in slow, purposeful sentences. Beamon took the pad from her hands and motioned for her to get up. She rose and gave him a quick hug, then padded quietly out of the office. Beamon had been a constant source of entertainment to the executive office staff when he had been stationed in D.C. She looked happy to have him back.

“Please feel free to call me if you have any questions or comments. Cut a copy to Calahan on this one please, Billie.”

Sherman swiveled his chair back around as Beamon furiously scribbled on the pad in his lap.

“Jesus!” He slammed his feet down on the floor, bringing the chair to an abrupt halt.

“Yours Truly, or Sincerely?” Beamon grinned.

“Sincerely, you asshole.” He got up from the desk and grabbed his friend’s hand. Sherman’s secretary reappeared with a couple of cups of coffee, trading Beamon for her note pad. He tested it and shot her an approving look. Billie made the best coffee in the Bureau. Always something exotic.

“I got your fax, Tom. Thanks. The information was kind of sketchy, though. You have anything new?”

“We’ll find out in a few minutes. Frank’s gathering
together everything we’ve got. He’s giving a presentation for us and the Director in about five minutes.” Beamon followed him to a group of sofas set up for conversation. Unlike Calahan, Sherman rarely discussed business from behind his desk.

“So how’s Houston treating you—no more gun-fights, I hope.”

Beamon laughed. “You know how it is, Tommy. Stuff like that just seems to happen to me. Bad luck.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So you guys got time for dinner tonight—I feel like I haven’t seen Leslie forever.”

“Way ahead of you. She’s promised to make you an Indian feast.”

Beamon licked his lips in an exaggerated motion. Houston hadn’t turned out to be a hotbed of fine Indian cuisine.

A familiar voice behind him shattered the image of shrimp vindaloo and dal that had constructed itself in his mind.

“So, I see he’s arrived.”

Beamon didn’t stand, but twisted around in his seat.

“How you been, Frank?”

Richter took the chair next to him and extended his hand. “Not bad, Mark. I hear you’re tearing up Houston.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Beamon saw Tom Sherman look up and begin to rise. He took a deep breath and did the same.

“Good to see you, Mark,” Bill Calahan lied, taking a seat on the sofa against the wall and putting his feet on the coffee table. He didn’t offer his hand. “So what do you have for us, Frank. I hope it’s more than yesterday.”

Richter flushed, and Beamon remembered why he liked Houston so much.

“Yes, sir.” He handed out an identical blue folder to each of them, keeping one for himself. Clearing his throat quietly, he began.

“Of the three people identified as possible poisoning victims yesterday, one died early this morning and the other two are not expected to survive another forty-eight hours. We’ve sent our best people out to examine the corpses but we don’t have any data back yet. Reports from the hospitals suggest that the victims all have severe liver and kidney damage. The three victims are Jason Scott of New York, Randall Sanchez, and Steve Platt—both from Miami. I’ll run through what we know about them in that order.

“Scott was an attorney at a large law firm in Atlanta. He informed the doctors at the hospital that he was a heavy cocaine user when he was admitted. Prior liver damage from a childhood illness apparently contributed to his rapid decline. He’s the one that’s already dead—and he died before he could give us the name of his supplier.”

He flipped the page. “According to DEA, both Sanchez and Platt are involved in the cocaine trade in Miami—call ’em midlevel managers. I expect a full report this afternoon. Our guys have tried to interview them, but they’re pretty sick. Neither one is talking about where they got the drugs.”

Richter closed the blue folder in front of him and watched the other men page through theirs. For the most part, the folders contained what he had told
them, though the illness was described in more detail and each victim had a limited biography and photo. Beamon was the first to speak.

“So we’re sure that we’re dealing with poisoned drugs here, and not coincidental illnesses, or some other poisoned product.”

“Pretty much,” Richter replied. “Apparently this kind of organ damage isn’t very common. It’s definitely the result of some toxic substance. The fact that all three were confirmed coke users implies a connection.”

Beamon looked skeptical.

“Those three aren’t the whole story, though. What I didn’t lay out in writing is that there have been more reports of similar terminal illnesses since I wrote this. When I left my office, there were twenty-two reported cases virtually identical to these. Of course, they’re all unconfirmed.”

Beamon let out a low whistle and tossed his folder onto the coffee table. His aim was dead on, and it bounced off the Director’s feet.

“So what’s happening from the cashier’s check angle?”

“We’ve interviewed everyone working at the bank that day, except one teller who quit and we haven’t been able to locate. No prints—the guy wore gloves. The woman who did the checks for him gave us a pretty good description, but it sounds kind of suspicious. Five foot eight or less, long gray hair, bright blue eyes, beard, dark tan. Except for the height, probably a good indication of what he doesn’t look like. We also have his signature and driver’s license number. The
driver’s license is from California and it’s in the name of someone who died as an infant. Whoever he is, he’s covered his tracks pretty well.”

“I assume that they’d rotated through all their surveillance tapes?” Beamon said.

“Yeah, no pictures. We’re also expecting to run into a dead end on the FedEx packages. No prints or fibers on the letters or ad copy that we can’t identify. We’re still tracking down the prints on the outside of the envelope, but I’m not hopeful.”

Beamon leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him, knowing full well that it would irritate the hell out of Calahan.

“So what do you think, Mark?” Sherman asked.

“I think we’ve got problems,” he replied quietly.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Calahan didn’t bother to mask his annoyance.

“Sure.” He pulled his feet off the table and sat in a more upright position. “Okay, how is coke distributed? Say it gets manufactured in Colombia. It’s shipped to the U.S., in this case, probably into Miami. Then it gets passed down through the chain, from the big organized crime guys to the street dealers and users. So let’s say this stuff gets passed down to some middleman somewhere who’s actually one of our friends from the CDFS. He drops in a little poison and sends the shipment on through the chain. Now, depending on how much the people further down on the chain trust each other, they may or may not try the stuff. If they do, they’re gonna die. If they don’t they just keep passing it along. Frank said two of our victims were midlevel dealers—that tells me that someone hit a
shipment fairly high in the chain, and these two unlucky bastards were the suspicious types who like to try the stuff.”