Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Page 8

  The irony.

  He’d considered bringing the woman in. But Ladner shot it down. An impossible dilemma. Boss is going to cook you if you don’t solve the case pronto, but don’t you dare try anything creative to get the job done.

  But her words were nagging the hell out of him. Sherlock or not, she was either damn lucky or had some insight that might be useful. A whiz at digging up their private and confidential information. Unusually good or unusually lucky. But Sacker didn’t think much of luck.

  I should talk to her.

  There. He’d admitted it. In his head, okay. But that’s the first step. And why not? Ladner hadn’t forbidden communications with Gone. Nothing wrong with a little chat, right? She’d reveal herself to be the amateur her resume suggested. That would be that. No harm, no foul. Crossed off the list.

  Don’t drink and sleuth, Tyrell.

  He responded to the text.

  “Interested to talk. Privately. Your office in Queens. Tomorrow?”

  His phone buzzed. That was fast.

  “My office. Any time that’s good for you.”

  He tapped. “9 am.”

  He was going to have a hell of a headache. But nothing was moving in New York at that time of day on a Sunday. He might could manage it.

  “Perfect. See you then!”

  She closed with an emoticon smile.

  “Unbelievable.”

  He punched numbers into his phone. A rough voice answered.

  Focus, Sacker. Don’t sound drunk.

  “Frank? This is Tyrell. Remember that PI, the one who got our emails? Do me a favor. Run her through the system. Under the radar. I know what Ladner said. Just do it. As a favor. Yeah? Thanks, Frank.”

  He closed the call and put the phone away.

  “Pat, tall glass of water, please.”

  He pulled out two aspirins from his bag. He’d have to detox as much as possible before tomorrow’s meeting. Gulping down the water and pills, he tipped Pat, and turned to exit.

  “Chief! Your hat.” Pat held up the Ice Topper. “You said it was worth something.”

  Sacker pivoted back, swaying, and grabbed the hat. “Damn right, it is. Great grandfather’s. Had a bar and dance joint in Harlem. During the Renaissance.” He slipped it on.

  “Well, if the lady made you forget that, she must be something special.”

  God I hope so.

  He said nothing and walked into a biting evening breeze. Couples darted about, cars flashed past beyond the tracking capabilities of drugged eyes. He removed a pack of smokes and stared at the plastic covering.

  So it’s come to this. Two years on the gum and here I am.

  “Fuck it.” He opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with some matches swiped from the bar. He took a long, slow drag.

  “Damn, that’s good.” If he was going to hell, he might as well enjoy it.

  He shuffled down the road toward home, replaying events with staccato interruptions from each inhalation. Images from the PI’s website danced in his mind.

  “God, she’s desperate.”

  He stopped as a taxi turned in front of him, wheels jumping the curb. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and water vapor into the night sky.

  She’s desperate? Well, so am I.

  20

  Azadi Tower

  The colossus of Azadi Tower glowed in the spotlights. Reflected rays from its massive contours illuminated objects around the structure, dooming any covert mission. Houston glared at their whining, international CEO and arms dealer Reza Zanjani.

  “You idiots!” he hissed between his teeth, arms tied in front of him. He struggled against a special forces soldier, one of four, chaperoning him on the mission. “You’ll be spotted before you get near the tower. They’ll kill us all!”

  Houston frowned. “Tape him.”

  The soldier yanked a strip of duct tape from his pack and stretched it over the muttering Zanjani. The soldier scowled.

  “He shouldn’t be here. Him either,” he said, his eyes flicking toward Zaringhalam. “They’ll compromise the mission.”

  “Calculated risks. One’s our CIA contact. He’s deep in Iranian cyberwarfare. Tape Mouth’s the only one we have who’s been down there, met the target. We might need him. I’m counting on his cowardice.”

  “It’s his clumsiness that worries me more,” said the soldier, turning away and surveying their surroundings. “But what are we going to do for cover? This mission is too improvised.”

  “No time. Intel came yesterday and the target might rabbit.” She checked the smartwatch around her wrist as it synced with a communications satellite. “We have a plan for the lights. Trick of some old terrorist buddies.” Her eyes never left the digital display on the watch. “In three, two, one....”

  The bright light evaporated. A section of the electrical grid failed, plunging many blocks into darkness. Zaringhalam gasped and Zanjani wheezed through his nose.

  “Our guardian Angel. One for one.” She turned to the tower. “We move.”

  The strike team fitted night vision goggles and jogged toward the monument. The Seals fanned out in a fluid pattern, individual soldiers taking the lead in turn and holding a point. The rest followed behind, Lopez shoving the dealer forward with Zaringhalam at his side. Houston covered their backs.

  Near the tower they saw the first signs of Nemesis. Shadows materialized by the elevator shaft INTEL 1 imaged from space. The forms gestured to the lights and surrounding city.

  Not your normal blackout, boys.

  “Hostiles, twelve o’clock,” came the voice of the Seal commander.

  She whispered into her mic. “Engage. Terminate and secure the entrance.”

  The soldiers struck like serpents. A single shot fired, the other guards brought down by hand. Lopez and Houston arrived with the Iranian pair as soldiers dragged bodies through a hidden doorway. The commander of the team exited the structure.

  “Clear to the elevator,” he said, “We should take the upper deck. There’s an old-school hatch we can jimmy.”

  Houston nodded. “Just leave the bodies here. There’s no time for more.”

  They entered the elevator. The team worked the fire-access hatch in the ceiling. It opened. One-by-one, the team boosted others through the opening to the roof of the cab. Safety rails lined the edge. Houston pointed to Zanjani.

  “Tie him to the railing or he’ll fall off. Nader—hold on.”

  Two soldiers complied, and Lopez called up from within the cab.

  “Secured?”

  Houston gave him a thumbs up. He pressed the single button in the cabin. The cab jolted and dropped. Lopez leapt and grasped the edges of the hatch, hoisting himself through the opening. Soldiers aimed weapons through the ceiling toward the doorway as they descended several stories beneath the surface of Tehran.

  Thirty seconds later, the elevator shuddered to a stop. Houston waited with her Browning in her hands, Lopez beside her with a stun grenade. The soldiers faced the doors as they sighted their weapons.

  The doors opened. Lopez and two other soldiers bounced grenades off the floor and into the room. The explosions rattled the elevator car.

  “Let them walk into the line of fire,” said Houston.

  They waited. No one came.

  The soldiers looked to Houston and back to the doors.

  “Go!” she shouted.

  They leapt one after the other, the first wedging the doors open, automatic weapons aimed into the unknown. The troops landed, crouched, and moved out. Behind them Lopez and Houston followed, firearms raised and readied.

  They burst into an empty room.

  Damn.

  Houston gazed around the space. Definitely a command center. Monitors displayed the darkened footage from outside. Tables were lined with the detritus of human occupation—papers, food, eyeglasses. Chairs were overturned, doors to other rooms left open.

  “They bugged out,” said the commander.

  “We just missed them,�
� whispered Lopez, his brows furrowed. “Something doesn’t make sense.”

  Houston holstered her weapon. “Too damn easy. They knew we were coming.” She looked back toward the elevator. “Somebody go get Zaringhalam and that asshole down here. Maybe somebody knows something we don’t.”

  Lopez approached a table in the middle of the space, a glass vase set alone in its center. He reached a black glove toward it, grasped something inside, and turned around, holding up his hand. His deep voice rolled through the still space.

  “It’s a trap.”

  Sonbol. A beautiful flower was set against the dark fabric of his glove, the many-petaled purple like a royal emblem. The sign of death from Nemesis.

  “Iranian forces approaching!” called the commander, staring at the security cameras. The bright beams of a hovering helicopter strobed the ground in front of the tower.

  Houston stared at the flower. “She’s played us from the start.”

  “We have to get out!” cried the soldier.

  “Not yet!” She glared at the elevator. “Disable the lift—slow them down. If we get out of this, we’re not going home empty handed.”

  “Angel’s worm,” said Lopez. He pulled out a thumb drive. “Will any of the computers do?”

  “If they’re networked. Her code should spread and infect them all and start copying. Go!”

  Lopez sprinted to the nearest machine and inserted the drive. She turned to the soldiers.

  “The elevator. Now!”

  The men ran to the lift and darted inside. Seconds later, the two Iranians stumbled into the room.

  “Clear!” yelled a soldier.

  An explosion rocked the space. Smoke and dust billowed from the mangled elevator, the lift machinery scattered across the floor. The commander approached Houston as his team moved the dealer past them, tying him to a chair.

  “There’s no going out that way,” he said. “Unless we find another exit, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “Sitting for a while,” said Houston. “If they don’t know another way in, it’s going to slow them the hell down. Meanwhile, fan out. Search this place. Find me another exit!”

  21

  Going, Going, Gone

  Sacker put the mobile phone on speaker with one hand as he steered with the other. His head pounded. His stomach lurched rattling over a road that resembled a carpet bombed and neglected war zone. He glanced forward after dialing.

  Oh gentrification, how fickle art thou.

  He sped through a desert of ramshackle apartments, abandoned warehouses, and junked cars. The new money sweeping through Brooklyn and Queens snubbed this stretch. No doubt the rent was low. Gone worked on the edge.

  “Yeah, Frank. Go ahead. And thanks for pulling weekend duty on this.”

  A distorted voice crackled out of the tiny speaker. “I owe you more than a few, Tyrell. Anyway, this is a weird one. Interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Superficially, all looks good. Agency’s legit, licensed. She’s got college records, birth certificate, no priors. Grace Gone, twenty-five, valedictorian and dancer in high school, first in class at CUNY: Forensic Science, finished in three years. Applied to—get ready for this—NYPD and served two years as a beat cop downtown.”

  “She was a cop? What the hell? How?”

  “Beats me. Sounds like she’s a little Einstein so maybe she was being groomed for detective.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “That’s one of the weird things. Suddenly, she’s gone, no record as to why. A bit later, she opens her little agency.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t hack a cop’s life.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But to the really weird stuff. All the superficials are in neat order. When you dig a little deeper, things get murky.”

  “What do you mean?” He was nearing the address and began to slow down.

  “Look, I couldn’t do much, and I won’t do more or Ladner will roast my ass. But to start, the parents. They’re ciphers. Can’t pull anything outside of her documents and some local registrations for marriage.”

  “Well, they immigrated or something, right?”

  “Yeah, except there’d be some sort of record. A lot of records, Tyrell. There’s nothing.”

  “Illegals?”

  “Maybe, but Chinese? And they materialize all middle class with a genius daughter? Something smells funny here.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve seen a lot of records, Tyrell, real people and not so real people. She doesn’t look real.”

  “What do you mean ‘not real’?”

  “If I had to bet, if this were part of something a lot darker, I’d say her paperwork’s forged. Her identity’s fake.”

  Fake? What the hell? This was just getting better and better. “Witness protection?”

  “Or mafia underworld—who knows? But I’d stay clear of this one. Too many red flags.”

  Shit. He was right outside her office building. “Thanks, Frank. Strike one off the debt.”

  “You got it, Tyrell. Good luck.”

  He stopped the car and shut the engine down. His head was a nail and the world a hammer. Even the damn hat hurt, so he left it in the car. He squeezed his temples and tried to figure out again what he was doing here.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “I’ve got a nobody detective I’m not supposed to work with who hacked into our NYPD mail servers. She’s likely not who she says she is with a fake life story. I’m about to go in there and talk to her about New York City’s most prominent serial murder case in over a century. My job is likely on the line. Now, why am I going to do this?”

  He stared at the sad looking building and sign hanging over the door.

  “Because I’m a damn idiot, that’s why.”

  He opened the door and exited the Crown Victoria. A short walk brought him to the door of Gone Investigating. He rapped on the wood and pressed the buzzer on the side.

  “One minute!” came a strained shout.

  A woman’s voice, and judging by the pitch, an anxious one. Two desperate souls. This had all the ingredients for a disastrous meeting. He heard movement, a confusing rhythm to her gait, but the door burst open before he could process more.

  Grace Gone.

  Frank had his research right. Chinese ancestry probable. Asian features, dark hair tied back. At five-four, he towered over her. She was thin, but athletic, the records of her dancing in high school making sense. Her dress was modest yet elegant, materials bought on a budget but worked together effectively. She wore no makeup or jewelry. Her eyes were keen—unnervingly bright—offset by their warm brown and a smile radiating from her face.

  “Detective Sacker!” she said. “Please come in!”

  He grunted and followed her inside.

  Holy hell, what a dump.

  It was every bit as threadbare as he imagined for the location and Gone’s status. He adjusted his step, noticing she lagged with a pronounced limp, and let her lead him into an office. The space had all the appearance of once being a kitchen. She took a seat behind a simple desk and he dropped into an opposing chair. It felt so comfortable he wished he could sleep in it.

  “Thank you for coming down here,” she offered.

  “Well, there was no way I was going to have you come to the precinct.”

  “I’m not a popular option in your group?” She smiled again.

  She’s cute. But not my type. Too small. “You could say that.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Your emails got me thinking. I wanted to find out more about you. Meeting seemed the logical next step. Consider it a job interview with a very low chance of success.”

  “I am,” she said, holding his gaze.

  Sacker returned the stare. “Some things you said dovetailed with certain aspects of our investigations,” he began.

  “Like the internal organ damage.”

  He cocked his head. “Yes, exactly.”

  “But you thin
k my idea to examine the mouth pH a little batty.”

  Had she bugged the precinct in addition to hacking it? “Lots of us did. That and your, how shall we say—”

  “Status as a complete nobody?”

  He laughed. Cute and funny. Like the emails. But laughter prodded the headache. “Right. Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  “What you want is to be convinced I’m going to be useful to your investigation, that what I got right wasn’t just a lucky guess and what I suggest—which could embarrass you if wrong—will be right more than wrong. Basically, you want me to convince you today I’m an investment worth the risk.”

  “You’re an honest one, that’s for sure. At least on the surface,” he said, mulling the background check. “Since you like taking the lead so much, how are you going to convince me?”

  Her jaw set. “Until you trust me, at least a little more, I can’t do much for this case. I’d need to view evidence, examine bodies, crime scenes. So, I’m left with what we have here. That means I have to impress you with my skills as a private investigator using nothing more than what we both can access in front of us. Logically, it follows I have to train my deductive powers on you, detective.”

  “On me?” Sacker grinned.

  “Yes! How is this for a deal: I’ll tell you what I’ve figured out about you from our short time together. If you’re sufficiently impressed, you put me on this investigation.”

  Sacker shook his head. “I’m not here to make a deal, Ms. Gone. But nice try.”

  “A tough negotiator.” Her bottom lip pouted. Sacker had an urge to ease it back into her mouth. “Well, I’ll do my dog and pony show anyway, and we’ll see what you do.”

  “So you’re gonna profile me, break me down? Things you can’t look up online or your average Joe wouldn’t have guessed by looking at me? And I’ll be impressed?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Sacker eyed the small woman across from him, one side of his mouth twitching.

  “All right, Ms. Gone. Impress me.”