Shadow Boys (25 page)

- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX -

They medevaced Bobby out, taking him to Parkland Hospital.

The FBI agents choppered us out, too, a very short trip, setting down in the parking lot of Sam Browne’s, Bobby’s bar, which was at the base of the levee.

Before the rotors of the helicopter stopped spinning, several Dallas police squad cars squealed into the bar’s parking lot, followed by the same number of black SUVs full of feds.

Everyone congregated on the hot asphalt until someone pointed out there was a nice cool bar a few steps away.

Piper and I stood a little ways apart from the group, and, without talking about it, began to ease away, heading toward the street, putting distance between ourselves and the strange, uneasy mix of cops and feds. I wanted to regroup, call Theo Goldberg, and continue the search for Tremont Washington.

No such luck.

An agent flanked us and held up one hand. Then he pointed toward the bar. “They want to debrief you.”

“What if we don’t want to be debriefed?” I asked.

“It’s hot out here and I’m sweating my nuts off,” he said. “Let’s don’t make this hard, okay? Just go inside.”

Piper and I looked at each other and then followed a dozen or so FBI agents and about the same number of DPD officers into Sam Browne’s. Raul Delgado, who’d pulled himself together, was at the head of the group.

I sat in the same booth we’d been in a few days before and decided to order an iced tea and a cheeseburger while I waited for whatever was coming next. Piper moved to the rear to confer with the lead FBI agent and several senior staff from DPD headquarters.

Halfway through the burger, I noticed Lieutenant Hopper, the chief’s assistant, milling about by the dartboard. He glanced at me several times but didn’t approach.

A few minutes later, the waitress took my empty plate and refilled my glass of tea.

I was worried about a repeat of the near-riot earlier that day at the building in North Dallas, but this time apparently everybody decided to play nice.

Another ten minutes went by before Piper came over and told me why.

“The two Glocks at the scene.” She slid into the booth. “Feds have this new ballistics system. Fits in the back of a panel van.”

“Yeah?”

“They ran a preliminary test on both guns. Got a ninety percent match that one of them was the weapon used in the vigilante killings.”

“Which one?” I asked. “Bobby McKee and Delgado both were carrying the same kind of gun.”

A moment passed.

Piper said, “They don’t know.”

I tried not to raise my voice. “What the hell do you mean they don’t know?”

“They were found next to each other. Neoprene grips. No usable prints.”

I tried to remember the details of what had gone down only an hour or so before.

Bobby had finally dropped his weapon when his heart attack began, and Delgado had tossed his when the FBI agents arrived. It had fallen on top of Bobby’s. Everything had occurred in a relatively small area behind the SUV.

“So what does Delgado say?” I asked. “Which one was he carrying?”

Piper glanced from side to side, then leaned close. “Nobody knows where he is.”

“What?”
I looked around. “He was just here.”

“He’s a deputy chief. Apparently, he just walked off and nobody stopped him.”

I took a moment to process that information. “What about serial numbers?”

“They’re working on that now,” she said.

It didn’t really matter at this point. One of the men—a retired captain or an active-duty deputy chief—would be held responsible for the killings. The feds possessed the evidence, so of course the DPD was playing nice. They had laundry they needed to clean.

Before I could say anything else, the front door to the bar opened and a whirlwind of activity entered, causing a momentary lull in the crowd noise.

At the head of the whirlwind was a man about five foot five. He moved awkwardly in pointy-toed snakeskin boots that appeared to be out-of-the-box new. He was in his late forties, wearing an oversized cowboy hat with a huge feather band and a shirt that looked like something Porter Wagoner might have owned, but not as tasteful.

Behind him were several people in blue Windbreakers—federal agents—and two men I recognized as being attorneys from the Dallas office of Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark.

The man in the cowboy hat looked around the room and then made a beeline to my booth.

“Who’s the rhinestone cowboy?” Piper asked.

The man bounded over and held out his arms to me.

“Jonathan Cantrell. We finally meet.” He leaned over and gave me a big hug. “It’s me. Theo Goldberg.”

“Welcome to Dallas, Theo.” I shook his hand. “The wardrobe department from
Urban Cowboy
called. They want their clothes back.”

“You like, huh?” He ran a finger around the brim of his hat. “I went to a mall in McLean, told them I needed some duds for a trip to Dallas. Told them I needed to, you know, fit in.”

“You look great.” I smiled. “Like a native.”

“I have a meeting with the mayor tomorrow.” He beamed. “I want to make a good impression.”

His entourage fanned out, the attorneys huddling with a group of feds. One of the FBI agents appeared to be a high muckety-muck from DC, so there was much genuflecting from everyone with a federal badge.

I settled back in the booth. “What brings you to the provinces, Theo?”

“And this must be Sergeant Westlake.” He touched Piper’s elbow. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Piper held out her hand.

“Pictures don’t do you justice, my dear.” Theo kissed her fingers and slid into the booth next to me. “You are a rose of exceptional beauty, blossoming on the plains of the Lone Star state.”

In spite of herself, Piper blushed a little.

“We needed to do a little cleanup in regards to the mess with the shipment,” Theo said. “Flew down this morning on the assistant director’s Gulfstream.”

Little-known fact. The largest consumer of private jets—Gulfstreams, Lears, Citations, et cetera—was the US government.

“So, Jonathan.” Theo turned toward me, nearly hitting me in the eye with his oversized Stetson. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“An understatement of epic proportions,” I said. “How did you find us?”

“Things were obviously going downhill,” he said. “So I asked a friend at the State Department to activate Snoopy on Delgado’s phone.”

“Of course. Snoopy.” I smacked my forehead. “And you ‘asked a friend.’ ”

Theo shrugged innocently. “I had to ask, Jonathan. As a civilian, I certainly wouldn’t have access to such an invasive program as Snoopy.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Piper. “What’s Snoopy?”

I explained briefly.

At the request of the State Department, a Northern California technology company, one who shall remain nameless, had developed a program that allowed a telco to remotely access a phone’s camera and microphone even if the device was turned off. Neither the owner of the phone nor anyone in the vicinity would have the slightest idea what was going on.

The State Department wanted the software in order to track kidnapping victims. Obviously, it didn’t take long for some of the other alphabet agencies to see the benefit of this particular technology. The official name of the program was so complicated that no one remembered it. Everybody called it Snoopy.

“Hence.” I finished my story. “Why I never carry a cell phone.”

“That’s really scary,” Piper said. “Isn’t there a law against that?”

“Probably.” I shrugged. “But that’s never stopped them before.”

“Hey.” Theo pointed a finger at her. “Do you want the terrorists to win?”

Piper rolled her eyes.

“Do you still have access to Delgado’s phone?” I asked.

Theo shook his head. “He threw it in the river.”

“Maybe he’s been micro-chipped?” Piper said. “You know, like a dog?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Theo looked at me. “Is she trying to be funny, Jonathan?”

“She’s asking if you know any other way to find him,” I said. “Apparently, he’s gone missing.”

“Oh yes. The thing with the ballistics match and the vigilante killer.”

I nodded.

Theo didn’t respond.

After a moment, I said, “So . . . any ideas where he might be?”

Theo frowned. “Why would I care about some schmuck in Dallas?”

I tried not to sound exasperated. “Because you wanted me to keep track of him. Remember?”

Theo nodded. “Yes. But that was before we found out he was bat-shit crazy.”

I sighed, tired all of a sudden.

“What do I want with a crazy politician, Jonathan? We have enough of those already in DC.”

This point, I had to concede.

“I’m here to meet with the mayor and the district attorney,” Theo said. “Smooth things over after the problem with that shipment.”

“Problem?” Piper said.

“Best not to ask.” I shook my head.

“I don’t care about Raul Delgado anymore,” Theo said. “I never really did that much in the first place. He just seemed like a good person to have in your back pocket, you know what I mean?”

“Like a comb?” I asked.

“You’re funny, Jonathan.” Theo slapped my cheek lightly. “That’s why I like you.”

I smiled.

Theo continued. “That’s also why it causes me great pain to have to fire you.”

I cocked my head. “Say what, cowboy?”

Piper smirked. “Dogs and fleas, Jon. Lie down with one, get the other.”

“The shipment,” Theo said. “I have to sacrifice someone on the mayor’s altar tomorrow.”

“You’re firing me?” I tried not to sound incredulous.

“Poor choice of words on my part. We are allowing you to resign. The HR department will work out a generous severance package.”

I didn’t reply. The idea of being away from the nine-to-five grind as well as the unseemly nature of the contracting business was not unappealing.

A figure crept into my peripheral vision, oozing across the room like mist from a witch’s cauldron.

Lieutenant Hopper, the chief’s assistant, approached our booth. He cleared his throat and stared at Theo.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. Who are you?”

Theo sighed dramatically and said his name. “I am a lawyer, and I represent the United States, specifically, the Department of Homeland Security.”

“What about the US attorney?” Hopper asked. “Where’s he?”

“I had breakfast with the attorney general in DC this morning. That would be the local guy’s boss.” Theo paused. “Told him I would handle things.”

Hopper nodded and then looked at Piper. “Sergeant Westlake. I need to have a word with you.”

Piper stared at Hopper for a few moments longer than necessary and then slid out of the booth. They walked to a corner of the room. Ninety seconds later, she returned.

“I got shit-canned, too.” She slid back into her side of the booth.

“I’m sorry.” I patted her hand.

“Not like I didn’t see it coming,” she said.

Theo clucked his tongue. “What a horrible thing. You should come work for the law firm. We have an opening.”

“Shut up, Theo.” She shook her head. “You’re starting to annoy me.”

“Spunk.” He smiled. “I like that.”

“When is my termination effective?” I asked.

“Immediately,” Theo said. “Sorry. But I have to tell the mayor and DA tomorrow.”

“My severance package. I need access to the databases for a couple of weeks.”

“This could be arranged.” Theo stroked his chin.

Piper said, “You’re still trying to find Tremont, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “And Bobby’s daughter. Hannah June McKee.”

- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN -

In the makeshift orphanage in West Dallas, Lysol watches Hannah McKee cradle the baby, a bottle of formula in the infant’s mouth. Both she and the child are cooing, looking at each other with contentment.

Hannah is naked except for a pair of black panties, Lysol’s measure to keep her from running away. As time has gone by he’s realized she wouldn’t run even if given the chance. But he doesn’t tell her to put her clothes back on. Nor does she ask to.

Something about a woman with an infant, especially an attractive woman who’s nearly naked, gets a man’s blood going.

Despite wanting Jamal’s help in feeding the babies, Lysol banished him to the backyard after the formula was warmed. Jamal is just a boy, but there’s no sense getting his hormones cranked up any earlier than necessary. Lysol helps with the feeding, surprised at how easy it has all come back to him.

The baby gurgles. The woman pats his back while staring at Lysol, her expression seductive without meaning to be.

Lysol shakes his head, trying to force those particular thoughts of Hannah McKee from his mind. He turns her cell back on, debates who to reach out to. Realizes there’s no one except his lawyer, the phone call of last resort.

“What happens after I’m done feeding the babies?” Hannah says.

“I’m gonna figure a way out of here.” He peers through the window.

The cop is still there but he has company now. A Dallas County sheriff’s deputy has just pulled up. The cop and the deputy talk for a moment and then the cop leaves. This is an odd occurrence and Lysol doesn’t know what to make of it.

The five-oh are obviously still looking for him, but they are apparently stretched a little thin if the county’s getting involved.

“The babies, they’re gonna need to be changed in a little while.” Hannah puts the child down.

“So get to it.” Lysol is all good with feeding the kids. Changing them, that’s another story.

“We’re about out of diapers. There’re more in my car.”

“And where would your car be?”

She walks over to the window, seemingly unashamed of her nudity. It’s late afternoon and the light is growing dim in the living room of the house south of Singleton.

She stands next to Lysol, reaches in front of him, and lifts one slat of the blinds. Her arm brushes against Lysol’s shoulder; he steps back.

“There.” She points to the right. “Down the block.”

Lysol doesn’t want to open another slat and risk the po-po seeing too much movement from the house. So he moves closer to the woman, peers over her shoulder.

A late-model BMW sits in front of the home next door.

He can smell the odor of shampoo and baby powder on Hannah McKee, not an unpleasant combination. That, combined with her body, makes his head swim.

“The car registered to you?” He moves away.

“To a leasing company. My name’s on the lease, though.”

“Is it hot?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Anybody looking for the car? Or you?”

“No.” She turns back from the window and stares into his eyes. “No one is looking for me.”

“Can Jamal and his little crew change the babies?”

She hesitates, then nods.

Another sheriff’s car pulls up behind the first one. The two deputies stand on the sidewalk, conversing. They are relaxed, not anxious. For now at least.

“You can’t leave by the front,” she says.

“I need your car. In the alley.”

“Then I’ll have to put my clothes on and drive it there.”

Lysol doesn’t reply.

“But that would mean you’d have to trust me.” She puts one arm on his shoulder, a finger rubbing his neck. “Do you think you can trust me?”

Lysol struggles not to stare at her body, to control the involuntary reactions from his own.

“Is your leg okay?” Hannah glances down at the flesh wound. “Want me to change the bandage?”

Lysol looks down. She’s standing right in front of him, so his eyes traverse the length of her body, the breasts, the smooth flesh of her belly, the front of her panties, a triangle of black silk.

“My leg’s fine.” He slips away from her, heads down the hall.

She follows him to the bedroom.

Lysol dashes to the window, bumping the bed as he goes, knocking Hannah’s purse to the floor. Her wallet falls out, flops open.

Lysol moves one side of the blinds a fraction, peers outside, looking for an escape.

The children are in the backyard, kicking a basketball. Their weapons are not visible. Beyond the yard lies the alley where he first encountered Jamal.

He realizes he’ll never make it on foot. He has to have a car.

Hannah lies on the bed, head propped up on one arm.

“You ever been with anybody like me?” she says.

Lysol stares at her. A cray-cray white ho, hot-looking, built for speed. Usually this is his favorite combination.

Not now, though.

He glances at her purse and wallet on the floor. He picks up the wallet. Earlier, he’d searched the money compartment and read the info on her driver’s license, which was on the outside in a plastic sleeve.

He had not searched the entire wallet, however.

After dropping off the bed, the wallet had fallen open to the picture section, a throwback to a different era. Who keeps pictures like that anymore when you have a cell phone?

Two photos are visible. One is a black kid, maybe twelve or thirteen. The kid has eyes that aren’t slow but aren’t right either. The other picture is a much younger Hannah McKee, maybe a decade before, standing by a Mexican man in a Dallas police uniform.

“This is Tremont Washington.” Lysol points to the first photo. “I recognize him from the neighborhood.”

Hannah doesn’t reply.

“People are looking for Tremont,” Lysol says. “You know where he is?”

She shakes her head. “We had a fight, me and—it’s not important. He always runs away when we fight.”

“We who?”

“He always comes back, too.” She paused. “Except this time he didn’t.”

“The cop.” Lysol points to the second picture. “You had a fight with him?”

Hannah grabs an end of the comforter and covers herself.

“Is the cop your boyfriend?”

She pulls the comforter to her chin.

“If you tell me where Tremont is,” Lysol says, “then I can get someone to pick me up and I’ll go away. You won’t have to see me again.”

Jonathan Cantrell. He’s still connected to the feds. He can call off the local heat if Lysol can give him info about Tremont Washington.

Hannah shakes her head. “I don’t know where he is. He just took off running and we never saw him again.”

Tears fill her eyes.

Lysol throws the wallet against the far wall, angry and frustrated.

Cantrell will be of no help then. Lysol is alone. The weight of that simple fact hangs on his shoulders like a lead blanket.

Time for the escape plan. He’s been putting it off for too long.

Lysol sits on the bed and, using Hannah’s cell, dials the number of his attorney, an ethically challenged gash-hound named Stodghill.

Stodghill, a criminal-defense specialist, answers his cell after a long time. Lysol can hear 1980s hair-band music blaring in the background. He figures the man is in a strip club since it’s after lunch and all.

Without going into any incriminating details, he explains quickly what’s happened.

Stodghill understands immediately, says he’ll ready Lysol’s escape plan, which is really quite simple.

A chartered Learjet will be standing by at Love Field. In the passenger compartment will be a bag of cash, a passport, and a key to a safety deposit box in Houston. Three million euros are in the safety deposit box, enough to start a new life somewhere else.

They discuss the details for a few moments. Then Stodghill says, “You really leaving Dallas?”

Lysol stares at the wall of the bedroom for a long time.

Stodghill says, “You still there?”

“Stand by,” Lysol says. “Just keep it all on hold.”

He hangs up before the attorney can respond.

He looks at Hannah. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Where?”

“Away.”

Neither of them speak.

A helicopter flies overhead. Low and fast.

On the dresser is a small flat-screen TV. Lysol turns it on.

The local anchors with their puffy hair and plaid sport coats are talking fast, like they get paid by the word and they better get as many out as possible.

A gunfight on Singleton Boulevard several hours before. A picture of Lysol appears on the screen.

There is another story, too, though.

A suspected serial killer, responsible for what the police are now calling the Vigilante Murders, has been taken to a local hospital after suffering a heart attack.

Another picture flashes on the screen, this one of an older man, a retired cop named Robert McKee.

Hannah weeps softly as Lysol calls his attorney back.