The 56th Man (24 page)

"Do you know that drugs are being sold on the
riverfront here, detective?"

Carrington went over to the small kitchen
window and peered out, as if studying Howie Nottoway's house
through the trees. "What did you see?" he said after a long
moment.

"Do you know?"

"Yes."

"And your police department has done nothing
about it?"

"We're working on it," Carrington answered
grudgingly.

"Yes?"

"You're talking about the Kayak Express, I
guess."

"They operate out of a kayak, yes."

"You've seen them in operation?"

Did Ari want to drag the Mackenzies into
this? He personally did not care how people destroyed themselves.
He was more concerned for the small farmers in Afghanistan,
Columbia and elsewhere who got caught up in the cartel wars and
deadly local battles over turf. And the middlemen were equally
victimized, in most cases. Whether they were brutalized by the
Taliban or getting beheaded in a fight over the drug trade traffic
on the Mexican border, the distributors ran the ultimate risk. All
for the morbid, mind-sucking European and American markets. For
dreary, self-indulgent consumers like the Mackenzies....

And who else?

Ari decided against showing his cards.
Besides, Carrington probably knew about the Mackenzies already. And
he had no clue how deeply the police themselves were involved. Ari
had hands-on experience with corruption.

"I've heard rumors about it," he said
flatly.

"What, from Howie?"

"He's the leader of the Neighborhood Watch
program in this area?" Ari said with a flex of inquiry.

"Yes."

"Then who better? But no...it wasn't
Howie."

"And you don't intend to tell me who's
spreading rumors around here?"

Ari wondered if he had made a misstep. If he
could offer no reasonable source for his information, Carrington
would feel he had been tricked into revealing the existence of the
Express. If he said it was Howie, he would antagonize a key witness
to the murders--of that Ari was now fairly certain.

"A couple of nights ago, around midnight,
several small rockets were fired from the island just across from
here. You can see it clearly during the day from the living room
window."

"Yeah...?"

"I saw a kayak come close to shore, and then
another boat came down the river and drew up next to it. I saw the
men...I believe they were men...exchange something. Money and
drugs? I can't say, of course. But it looked suspicious."

"You've got some bodacious eyes on you,
buddy."

"Twenty-twenty," Ari said modestly.

"With Starlight scope," Carrington said,
seemingly both doubtful and relieved. "Well...that's the Kayak
Express for you. Gives a whole new look on outdoor activities.
We've been watching them..."

Ari saw Carrington's mind work. He was
calculating time frames. Was he making certain Ari did not think
the Express existed while the Riggins were in residence?

"...for a few months now. Problem is, if we
catch them on the water, they just drop the stash overboard and
we've got nada. And we don't know yet where their land operation
is. Or their Mr. Big." He glanced at Ari.

"I'm familiar with the phrase."

"Then you must understand that we'd rather
chop off the head than the limbs."

"Of course. It takes time." Ari summoned his
most ingratiating smile. "I can tell you're preoccupied, Sergeant
Carrington. Would you like to begin your search immediately?"

"Mmmm?"

"For the gun you think I walked off with
yesterday."

"You wouldn't be put out?" Carrington said.
"I don't want to be a pest."

"The Riggins house is your house."

Carrington's thick eyebrows shot up. "It's
your house now, Mr. Ciminon."

"The invitation applies equally." Ari stood
and extended his arm, palm up. "Please. Look around. It would
disturb me if you left here filled with doubts."

"You don't have an accent, but you sound
funny as hell."

"How do I sound?"

"Like a butler on Masterpiece Theater." He
held up a finger. "If you don't mind, I'll start in here."

"Certainly."

He went through the kitchen cabinets, most of
which were completely bare, and those that weren't held only a few
dishes and mugs. He went to the lower cabinets. Those were
completely empty.

"You're going to need a sponge and scrub
pad."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Carrington flipped open the dishwasher, oven
and microwave.

"Are drugs a big problem in the city?" Ari
asked while Carrington, with a series of heroic gasps and grunts,
went down on his hands and knees and opened the bottom access panel
on the dishwasher, checking the space with the aid of a
penlight.

"Does shit stink?" Carrington said.

"And on the Southside?"

"It's part of the city." The detective paused
to catch his breath, then worked his way to his feet. He spotted
the box in the hall leading to the garage. “What’s that?”

“
Kitty litter. The kitty ran
away.”

“
Song and dance, song and dance…”
Without bothering to expand on this, he went into the living room
and stared at Ari's paraphernalia. "Rope, zip ties,
sledgehammer..." He brooded, as though trying to unravel an arcane
mathematical formula. "Is your car locked?" he asked
abruptly.

Ari reached into his pocket and, without
taking it out, pressed three times on the remote. There was a beep
from the garage. "Now it is."

Ari followed him out. The Scion was not
congenial to Carrington's endomorphic body type, but he managed to
work his way over the seats and through the trunk with only a
modest flood of sweat.

"Is there a drug problem in this
neighborhood?"

"Still the city."

After a quick look around the bare garage,
Carrington led the way back inside and paused in front of the
living room fireplace.

"Was Jerry Riggins a happy man? You knew him
well, I believe."

"He was the happiest," said Carrington,
staring into the empty hearth.

"And his family?"

"Even happier."

"Why was Jerry sitting alone at midnight in
this room when he was murdered?"

"Maybe he was watching Leno."

"There was no television in the diagram of
this room."

"You mean what the papers put out?"
Carrington barked, as though that in itself provided an
explanation.

"Yes, your two policemen seem to think there
were some inaccuracies."

"Mangioni and Jackson..." Carrington said,
giving Ari a cagey look. "I hope they got as much out of you as you
got out of them."

Carrington passed through the foyer without
giving the small access door to the outdoor water control a glance.
That would have provided an excellent hiding place for a gun--as
Ari believed it once already had. That smell on his fingers...he
was now convinced it was gun oil.

Carrington trudged downstairs and made a wide
turn around the bare rec room. He checked out the water heater,
listened to it hiss, then bossed around the washer and dryer. "At
least you got electricity and hot water."

"Were the Rigginses happily married?"

Carrington's glance was all the more baleful
under the harsh light of the utility room light bulb. "I said they
were happy. That means they were happy with each other, too. And
they loved their kids."

"But there seems to have been a fight between
them the day of the murders."

"Where the fuck did you hear that?"

"And some loud banging."

"Where the fuck did you hear that?"
Carrington repeated.

"It's common knowledge around here," Ari lied
brazenly.

"Mr. Ciminon, try not to be a pain in the
ass. If you did what I think you did at the Chinese market, you
deserve a medal. But that'll only get you so far. We've got Medal
of Honor winners serving life terms in prison."

Ari followed the detective upstairs, where he
again paused in front of the fireplace, as if that was his base of
operations.

"All these questions about a sledgehammer and
if Jerry owned a gun..."

"I'm only trying to understand--"

"Who are you?" Carrington asked abruptly.

"Who you see," Ari answered simply.

They went to the second floor, Carrington
straining at each step. In the studio, Carrington stared at Ari's
primitive sleeping arrangements. "Okay, you're a gypsy. Maybe I
better check with the real estate agency to make sure you belong
here."

"Alas," said Ari.

"You don't sound happy to be in a swell house
like this."

"With all this knocking in the wall?"

"Ha!" Carrington nudged the inflatable
mattress with his foot. There were no unusual bumps or lumps. He
gave the computer a cursory glance.

Like Mangioni and Jackson, like Ari himself,
Carrington found it painful to enter the boys' bedrooms. He checked
the closets and quickly left.

"Ah," he said when opened the hallway linen
closet. "You've actually got something here." Carrington ruffled
through the handful of towels and wash cloths. He went into the
bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.

"Do you think a gun would fit in there?" Ari
asked.

"Never know. You're not much into drugs
yourself, are you Mr. Ciminon? Not even a bottle of aspirin. No
mouthwash, either." He checked the cabinets beneath the sink.

They went into the master bedroom. Ari walked
over to the window. "Could Mrs. Riggins have been staring out at
the river before she was killed? Was she waiting for
something?"

"She was asleep," said Carrington flatly, as
though reading the words off a police report--just like Officer
Jackson.

"And the noise at the back door didn't wake
her..."

"What are you getting at?"

"Isn't it possible that the back door was
smashed in earlier? Around five o'clock? That's when the Mackenzies
heard a loud slamming over here. They heard a dispute--"

"That pair doesn't know their ass-joint from
their elbow-hole."

"That's possible. But it would explain why no
one woke up. The door was already broken."

"Right," Carrington fumed. "And then the
killers waltzed around the house for seven hours before killing the
family."

"Have you checked the phone records? They
might have called for help if--"

"Okay, no gun." Carrington slammed the
bedroom closet door shut. "At least, no gun in the house. I think
I'm finished here."

"That's just as well," said Ari, glancing at
his watch. "I have a date."

"Great. You get laid, maybe you'll stop
acting so screwy. But I wouldn't bring a lady here. No lady I know
likes an empty house." Carrington smirked. "Empty, except for the
ghosts."

THIRTEEN

"You don't know how lucky you are," Ropp told
Ghaith, as though letting him in on a secret. "Those SF's up ahead
are in a swish Land Cruiser. A Land Cruiser! Some kid comes along
and throws a rock, that coffin'll roll over."

"Don't dump on the civilian," Tuckerson
shouted over the roar of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle. He leaned
over to Ghaith. "The Land Cruiser's MDT up-armored. It can take a
pair of M67's and no one inside gets hurt.”

“
Grenades!” Ropp laughed
harshly. The man seated next to him on the bench overheard and
began to jump up. When he realized Ropp had shouted the word in a
normal conversation he punched him in the shoulder.

“
Like I was saying,” Ropp
continued, rumpling the blouse of his DCU as he rubbed his sore
arm, “even an up-armored Land Cruiser doesn't stand much chance.
And these Humvees behind us aren't much better, with their
hillbilly armor. But a Brad, you gotta love it.”

“
Ali Babba knocked out an
M-1 across the river last week,” Tuckerson said. “And the turret
alone of an Abrams outweighs a Bradley by--”

“
Thanks for reminding us,”
Ropp said, commandeering the remaining five men in back for his
scorn.

“
Point is, nobody's safe, no
matter what. Everyone gets donked when their time
comes.”

Ghaith nodded understandingly. He didn't
smile. He didn't want to look like a village idiot.

Every so often they could hear grunts from
the turret as Staff Sergeant Henley leaned forward to raise a power
line with a long wooden pole. Several soldiers had been
electrocuted before the BC's learned not to lift the lines out of
the way with bare hands.

“
Anyone know where we're
going?” the man next to Ropp shouted.

This broke the squad up. Like they were
supposed to know where they were going. Who was he kidding? This
was the U.S. Army!

“
Weren’t you listening to
the Top?” said Ropp. “Al Qods Street…the Mahdi Army…”

“
That’s it? We don’t know
nothing else?”

The squad broke up again. This guy was
serious. He really wanted answers!

“
There were some Q36 hits
last night that your battalion commander wants investigated,” said
Ghaith.

The laughing stopped instantly. The men
stared at Ghaith.

“
How do you now that?” Ropp
demanded.

"Your captain told me," Ghaith said, judging
this was the time to smile.

"You and not us?" Ropp said skeptically.

Ghaith was telling the truth, but felt
obliged not to give the reason: that Captain Rodriguez had called
him over while he was conferring with two of his platoon commanders
in order to get Ghaith away from 'those goons', as the captain put
it. Then he had turned his back on the interpreter and spoken as if
Ghaith was not there. As if he was not convinced Ghaith could speak
English.

"TF-1 was supposed to check out the grid
yesterday," Rodriguez had told the two lieutenants, showing them a
printout. "They got detoured, so now the colonel wants us to go
in."