The Crisp Poleward Sky Read online

  Jorge Ramirez nodded. “We’ll need more resources…” started Jorge.

  “Done. Set this up as a task force aimed at the human traffickers, and I’ll transfer some resources in to help. Temporary, of course, but we need to shut this down,” Clark Hall repeated.

  * * *

  “What would you like?” the bartender asked.

  “Hmm. Give me a Tequila Sunrise,” said the man. “That’s the ‘Arizona’ drink, right?”

  The bartender, who looked like a college student, nodded slightly to herself, and stepped down the bar to prepare the drink.

  Zeke Traynor was sitting at the bar in a restaurant in Tempe, sipping a Sleeping Dog ale and lunching on shawarma.

  The man turned to Zeke. “Is that any good?” he asked.

  Zeke nodded as he chewed. He was partially watching the room through the large mirror behind the bar, although at this time of day the restaurant wasn’t very busy. He swallowed.

  “Yes, actually, it’s very good,” he said.

  The man pulled himself up on the barstool and waited until the bartender returned with his drink.

  “Tab?” she asked.

  He nodded and she stepped down the bar to the register.

  “You live around here?” he asked Zeke, after he’d taken a sip of the drink.

  Zeke looked at him. “No.” he shook his head and smiled politely. He took another bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly.

  “I thought you might be a graduate student,” the man said, apparently to no one in particular. “Or a professor.” He was looking straight ahead at the mirror.

  Zeke shook his head and swallowed again. “Here on business,” he said.

  The man nodded. He was a slight man, wearing a plaid, short-sleeved shirt and black-rimmed glasses. Zeke judged him to be in his thirties. The skin on his face and arms was tanned. He said, “What do you do?”

  “I’m a consultant,” said Zeke, absently, and he sipped his ale again.

  “I’m a software programmer. My name is Jerry. Jerry Sebastian,” said Luis Cruz.

  “Zeke. Nice to meet you.”

  “Where are you from?” asked Jerry.

  “I live on Cape Cod.”

  “Wow, nice,” said Jerry. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “We have a government contract in Phoenix,” said Zeke. “I’m in town for a couple of days.”

  Jerry nodded. “I interviewed with RMT Systems this morning.”

  Zeke said nothing.

  “I think they’re going to offer me a job here,” he continued.

  “Congratulations,” said Zeke. “This seems like a nice place.”

  “Better than my last assignment,” said Jerry.

  “Where was that?”

  “Detroit,” he said simply. “Nuff said.”

  Zeke nodded. “Where’d you go to school?” he asked casually.

  “Carnegie Mellon,” said Jerry, warming up to the conversation.

  “Oh, Pittsburgh,” said Zeke. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Pittsburgh.”

  Jerry was quiet for a moment.

  Zeke half turned toward the man. “So you studied in the Software Engineering Institute there, I suppose. Downtown on Bayard Street?”

  “Yes,” said Jerry. “On Fifth Avenue, actually. I should know, I was there for five years.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, right,” said Zeke. “Baynard is one street over.”

  “What kind of consulting do you do?”

  “Well, we do a type of Organizational Behavior work. And we help with communications, sometimes,” said Zeke.

  Jerry nodded.

  ”Kind of specialized,” Zeke continued.

  “Sounds like it. Have you been doing it for long?”

  “Maybe five years,” said Zeke. “Not too long.”

  * * *

  “I’m on their radar,” said Zeke into his secure smartphone. “I was approached by a man who said he was a software engineer.”

  “Do you think he’s a killer?” asked Clive.

  “Definitely,” said Zeke. “I could tell from a number of things. One was his eyes. They were dead, just empty, flat reflections. And when he smiled, it stopped way short of those eyes.”

  “You know the type then,” said Clive.

  “Uh-huh,” said Zeke. “Also, his body made it pretty clear that he was lying.”

  “How so?” asked Clive.

  “His blink rate changed when I asked him details about his work history. And he lowered his vocal tone when he was delivering some of the lies,” said Zeke.

  Clive nodded.

  “Plus, he claimed that he’s from Detroit, but his tan says something different.”

  “Is he a better killer than the Mara’s were?” asked Clive.

  “I’m sure he is,” said Zeke. “He looks like an accountant or a…well, a software engineer. But he doesn’t wear the disguise well. It’s like it’s too small for him. His confidence and self-assurance show through. And they seem formidable.”

  “I see. Next step?” asked Clive.

  “Well, I doubt they’re planning another attempt like the one in the parking lot. Most likely, this will be a more methodical approach. A planned assassination.”

  “Yes,” said Clive.

  “I’ll interview the Mara’s here. Then I think I’ll disappear for a few days, head back east. Then come back here,” said Zeke. “There’s a lot to do in Cambridge, and if I imply that the project here is over and I’ll be leaving soon, it may push him to action.”

  “What name is he using?” asked Clive.

  “Jerry Sebastian,” said Zeke.

  “OK. Well, keep me informed,” said Clive. “And be careful.”

  Then, changing the subject, “How about Ramirez?”

  “Met with him this morning,” said Zeke.

  “And?”

  “His boss, Clark Hall sat in on the meeting,” said Zeke. “We actually accomplished a lot, toward bringing focus on the human trafficking issue.”

  “Yes, Clark told me he’d be there,” said Clive. “He’s a no nonsense guy.”

  “You spoke with Clark Hall before the meeting then?” asked Zeke.

  “I did,” said Clive. “He seems a lot more cooperative than Agent Ramirez. Anxious for our help with this.”

  “It’s a matter of tying the victims to Diaz, primarily.”

  “Right. But since the failed raid, Diaz isn’t coming close to the victims.”

  “Yes, he’s distanced himself from everything that might implicate him,” Zeke confirmed. “We’ll have to try something else.”

  * * *

  “I really didn’t know who else to call,” said Jerry Sebastian. “And you gave me your number. I’m sorry if this is an imposition.”

  “No, it won’t be a problem,” said Zeke. “I’m glad to help.”

  Jerry was sitting in his car, which was parked in the parking lot of a Walmart, a long block off of South Mill Avenue in Tempe, with the window down when Zeke approached. Jerry’d thanked Zeke profusely.

  “It just won’t start,” Jerry continued. “I thought it might be flooded, but that’s not it. The engine won’t turn over. It doesn’t even try.” But it’d probably do better with the battery wires attached, he thought to himself.

  “I’m not very mechanical, but I’ll give you a lift,” said Zeke. “Glad to help.”

  Jerry rolled the window up, opened the driver’s side door and exited the car. He turned back and locked it, and then, with a smile toward Zeke, he walked over and said, “Yeah, thanks again.”

  “Sure. Where you headed?” asked Zeke.

  “If you can get me back to my apartment, I can take it from there,” he said.

  “OK, where are we going?” asked Zeke.

  * * *

  It turned out that his apartment was in a neat, brown two-story building in a small, respectable neighborhood. The homes in the immediate area were well maintained and the yards cared for. The cars parked in the driveways indi
cated middle class incomes, but the vehicles were clean and appeared to be functional. The neighborhood was east of downtown and a couple of miles north of Tempe, in Phoenix proper.

  “Man, thanks so much for this,” said Jerry again. “I’ll get this sorted out. I’ll call a wrecker and have them take it to the repair shop,” he said, jumping out of the car.

  “No worries,” said Zeke. “You’ll be OK from here?”

  “I will,” said Jerry. His lips smiled, but not his eyes.

  “OK, well let me know if you need any more help.”

  Jerry said, “OK. Well, thanks for the ride.”

  Jerry turned away and took a step. Then he turned back to the car and said through the open passenger side window, “Let me take you to dinner tonight to pay you back.”

  “Not necessary, really,” said Zeke.

  “Well, how about I buy you a beer, then? And we can split dinner. Gotta eat, right?”

  * * *

  They met at a Mexican restaurant in Tempe, Zeke arriving first and grabbing a table. It was early, and the place was just gearing up for the dinner rush.

  “May I order a Dos Equis and some salsa and chips?” Zeke asked. He was sitting in a chair where he could watch the front door of the place.

  “I’ll get that for you, sir,” said the server, a blonde, blue-eyed college co-ed.

  “Thanks,” said Zeke. When she returned, he asked, “Do you speak Spanish?”

  The girl looked at him and cocked her head. Then she said, “Nooo….”

  Zeke smiled at her and sipped the beer. “Just curious,” he said.

  About three minutes later, Jerry Sebastian stepped into the dark room and waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he spotted Zeke and walked directly to the table, followed by their co-ed server.

  “Hola,” Jerry said in a fake Spanish accent and stuck out his hand.

  Zeke stood and shook it.

  He sat and the server took his order for a draft beer.

  “Did you get it taken care of?” asked Zeke about the car.

  “Yeah, it’s in the shop now,” said Jerry. “Overnight.”

  “How’d you get here?” asked Zeke.

  “Uber. I should have thought of that earlier,” he continued, “instead of bothering you.”

  Zeke sipped his drink.

  “So you said you’re a consultant? You’re in town on a job?” asked Jerry.

  “Yes,” said Zeke.

  “How’s that going?”

  “Actually, not well. I’ll probably be out of here in a day or two. Sort of wrapping things up now,” Zeke lied with a credible smile. “Then it’ll be a couple short trips back to finish it all up, and I’m outta here.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Jerry. “I don’t know many people in Phoenix.”

  “Did you get the job with RMT Systems?”

  “Yep, just pending a background check,” said Jerry.

  “Congratulations,” said Zeke. “Sounded like the work was right up your alley.”

  “It’s what I do,” agreed Jerry. He thought a moment. “Hey, we should get together before you go. Climb Camelback Mountain or something.”

  “Sure,” said Zeke, acting distracted.

  “We could start early and avoid the afternoon heat…”

  Zeke nodded slowly and said, “That might be fun.”

  * * *

  “You dined with the killer?” asked Clive when Zeke reached him on the secure line.

  “I did. Mexican food,” said Zeke.

  “Anything new?”

  Zeke thought for a moment. “He’s building rapport, trust and, maybe some sort of bond. He wants us to climb Camelback Mountain together one day this week.”

  “He goes slowly, doesn’t he,” said Clive.

  “So far,” said Zeke, thinking about Jerry Sebastian. “What do we know about him?”

  “Sally’s been busy with her research,” Clive said. “We think he’s responsible for a half dozen, maybe eight other killings. All around the country. She said his real name is Luis Cruz.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Zeke.

  “Good. He’s rather crafty, and as best we can tell he works for several clients. Moves around quite a bit. We don’t know where his home base might be,” said Clive, clearly reading the file as he spoke.

  “Do we know who his clients are?”

  “Some,” said Clive. “He’s supposedly responsible for several deaths of people who crossed the Sinaloa Cartel, and for some who testified against Benito Diaz’s organization. He’s also responsible, we’re pretty sure, for the death of two people who were in the Federal witness protection program. WITSEC.”

  Zeke thought for a moment. “Can we follow up with the witness protection people and see if they’ve lost any more of their charges recently? Say within the past three or four years, and nationally?”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Clive. “I’ll ask Sally to initiate that.”

  “Good. He may have been busier than we know,” said Zeke.

  “Yes,” said Clive. “Are you heading back, now?”

  “I am,” said Zeke. “Direct to Cambridge this time.”

  Chapter 9

  “Man, where did you get this dope car?” asked the taller boy, Eddie George.

  “You like it? It’s brand new, man,” said Peter Vartis. He had pulled the red Porsche 911 to the curb in front of Eddie’s apartment near the Raleigh University campus and it was immediately surrounded by curious boys.

  “Like it? I love it, man! How fast does it go?”

  “The speedometer maxes out at 350 kilometers per hour,” Peter bragged.

  “What’s that, 220 mph?” asked someone, probably an engineering student.

  “About that,” said Peter. “But the guy at the dealership said it’ll go faster than that.”

  “Wow,” said a couple people in unison.

  “This had to set you back a bunch,” said Eddie.

  “Yeah, almost a hundred grand,” Peter said under his breath. He liked the attention.

  * * *

  “Man, do you think it was smart to buy that car?” Eddie asked Peter once they were in Eddie’s apartment. “I mean, we’re supposed to be inconspicuous, you know.”

  “I know, man, but it’s a sweet ride. And I got that money, so…I had to have it.”

  “I know, I’ve got mine, too,” he said. “Can’t really put it in the bank, so I’ve got it stashed in my apartment.” Eddie thought for a minute. “I guess I’ll rent a safe deposit box and keep it there.”

  They were referring to the money they’d received for helping to arrange the student loan scam during the past few semesters. Working with some of the university staff, Peter and Eddie routinely identified students who might be more interested in making an easy buck than completing four years of an Ivy League college. It was the grass roots foundation of the scam.

  “No one’s going to notice,” said Peter. “Look around. This town is full of rich kids who get new cars from their parents all the time.”

  “How did you pay for it at the dealership?” Eddie was curious now.

  “I wrote them a check,” said Peter. “I deposited the money the last couple weeks, nine thousand dollars a day, like they told us, and today, I wrote a check for the car.”

  Eddie nodded. “OK, man, that’s cool.” Then, changing the subject, he asked, “Who do we have lined up for the fall semester?”

  Peter said, “Right now we’ve got the English guy, and the two brothers from Indonesia. We could use two more.”

  Eddie said, “I’ve been talking with a girl who may be interested. Lindsay Sommerset. Sounds like she’s here because her Dad wants her to be, but she’s not really into it. I think she’d rather have some cash.”

  “We’d better wrap that up quickly,” said Peter. “School starts pretty soon, and she’ll need to get her loan application in.”

  * * *

  The young secretary at the front desk of Huntington College smiled a warm smile when
Zeke walked through the entry door.

  Zeke smiled back at her and said, “I’m here to see Dr. Adams about the audit. Zeke Traynor.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. From across the desk, she smelled as though she’d been dipped in Tea Tree Oil. “Just a moment.”

  She picked up a handset, checked a list of names and dialed a three-digit number.

  823, Zeke noticed.

  “Dr. Adams? Hi, this is Cynthia at the reception desk.” Her voice rose toward the end of the sentence, as if she were asking, not informing.

  “There’s a Zeke Traynor here to see you about an audit.” She winked at Zeke.

  She paused. “Yes, sir, I’ll show him to the conference room.”

  She hung up the phone, stood up and half-walked, half-bounced down a narrow hallway, apparently confident that Zeke was following her. When they got to the right room, Cynthia said, “Go ahead and grab a seat. Dr. Adams will be here in a minute.” She turned to leave but remembered something and turned back and said, “Can I get you anything?”

  “Water?” asked Zeke.

  She smiled an ‘I can do that’ smile, nodded and walked away.

  The water and the doctor arrived at about the same time.

  “I’m Dr. Adams,” said the plump man. Zeke noticed the added emphasis on the “Doctor.” He was about five and a half feet tall and wore a silver suit and a blue pinpoint oxford button down shirt. His gray moustache and eyebrows were untamed, but all other visible hair was trimmed and neat.

  Trying to differentiate himself, thought Zeke. He might have an issue with his height.

  “Hello, Doctor,” Zeke said warmly, as if there were no problems in the world. “I’m here for the routine audit and interview. They said they called you about it?”

  “Yes, I was contacted,” said Adams. “You know, we’re audited frequently. In fact, I believe we just completed a student loan audit about four months ago.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Zeke, looking in his folder. “This one is different, though.”

  “How so?” asked Adams.