The Crisp Poleward Sky Page 12

  “You know who we are?” asked the thin man. “You don’t wanna mess with us.”

  “That’s just it,” said Zeke in a conversational tone. “We don’t know who you are.” The gun was steady on the thin man, now, obviously the man in charge. Mr. Big was probably just muscle.

  Kimmy watched the thin man’s hands while she held her Jerico loosely, pointed at the ground.

  “I’d leave your weapon holstered, if I were you,” said Kimmy, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

  He looked at her for a minute, but left his gun where it was.

  “So you’re the enforcers?” asked Zeke. “For the Boston mob?”

  The men were both mute, but the thin man had fire in his eyes. Then he said, “What Boston Mob?”

  Zeke looked at him.

  The thin man said, “Let’s go, Louie,” and he turned and walked away. The big guy, Louie, growled at Zeke and then turned and followed his friend, apparently willing to give up the Glock to avoid further embarrassment.

  “Bet they didn’t expect that,” said Kimmy. “Now they’ve got to make a decision. Report the encounter to their bosses, and admit they lost their gun and were humiliated…”

  “…Or keep it to themselves,” said Zeke. “Seems like someone involved with the Student Loan fraud might be starting to pay attention to us. Good.”

  “What do we do?” asked Kimmy.

  “Let’s see what kind of a reaction we get,” said Zeke. “If we keep pushing, they’re bound to try again. Then we can see who we’re dealing with.”

  “OK with me,” said Kimmy.

  “Meantime, I think I’ll see if Deputy Chief O’Malley will set us up with a Boston PD sketch artist. Let’s see if we can ID those two.”

  Chapter 10

  “They’ve got to be local muscle,” said Zeke.

  Deputy Chief O’Malley nodded. “Most likely,” he said. “We’ll set you up with an artist, see if anyone recognizes either of them.”

  “OK,” said Zeke. “Also, can we check for prints on the Glock and the bullets? That might confirm it.”

  “Well, sure. From what you said, they didn’t break any laws except pulling the gun on you. And they’ll probably claim that they were scared and thought you had guns or something,” said O’Malley. “That’s what usually happens.”

  “Sure,” said Zeke, “but it’ll shake them up a little, knowing you’re looking at them.”

  “Most of these shooters have a concealed carry permit these days,” O’Malley continued. “Makes everything legal. Unless they have a serious record.”

  Zeke nodded. “Here’s the gun.” He handed the Glock barrel first to the Deputy Chief. It was enclosed in a clear plastic zip lock bag.

  “How’d you get that in here?” asked O’Malley, referring to the police station.

  Zeke shrugged, and O’Malley shook his head with a wry smile.

  “OK, we’ll check it,” said O’Malley. “And we’ll circulate the sketch here, and with our OC guys as soon as it’s finished. I’ll get someone in here to work on that.” He paused a beat, then he picked up his desk phone and dialed.

  * * *

  “That’s Roy Calhoun,” said O’Malley. “I recognize him myself.”

  Zeke had worked with an artist from one of the local liberal arts colleges. O’Malley had seen the results and spouted the name immediately.

  “Local?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Malley.

  “And the other one?” asked Zeke.

  “That’s gotta be Louie Brennan,” he said. “He’s a big boy. Let’s see it.”

  The artist handed the second picture to O’Malley, who confirmed the identity with a nod. “Yep, those are the boy-o’s,” he said.

  “What’s their affiliation?” asked Zeke.

  “Oh, they’re just local muscle, like you said. They work for Freddy Hanson, one of the local mob bosses. He took over from his father a few years ago.”

  “Why would they be following us?” asked Zeke. “Is Hanson involved in the Student Loan problem?”

  “Well, from what you said that’s very big money, so somewhere along the way, someone had to organize it. Hanson’s dad might have been involved at some point.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Zeke.

  “He was plugged in with the local power structure,” said O’Malley. “He grew up with the mayor and a lot of the local politicians. Old Doc Hanson would have the connections to pull off something that big. At least to be involved.”

  “Doc Hanson?” asked Zeke.

  “Just a nickname,” said O’Malley. “He ran half the town for years. Stepped down after his wife died, like I said, a few years back.”

  “And junior picked up where Doc left off?” asked Zeke.

  “He did. They’d made their way into the upper echelon of crime by then. Federal construction contracts, bridges and roads, garbage collection, the unions, like that,” said the Assistant Chief.

  “And student loan money,” said Zeke.

  “Possibly. But be careful. These guys play rough,” said O’Malley.

  * * *

  “Word is that your auditor will be taken care of soon,” said Jobare Worthington.

  Dr. Paul Richardson looked up at him. They were walking across a courtyard toward the Dean’s offices located in the Raleigh University campus administration building.

  “You said that last week,” said Richardson. “But he keeps showing up in my offices.”

  “Can’t be helped. They sent some boys to scare him off, but apparently they weren’t, well, stout enough to make it stick,” said Worthington.

  “Who did they send?”

  “Roy Calhoun and Louie Brennan,” said Worthington. “Two of their best.”

  “What kind of auditor is he?” asked Richardson. “I’ve seen Calhoun and Brennan. They seem formidable.”

  Worthington shrugged. “Well, it won’t be long now. No worries. Just keep your mouth shut and go along with the audit.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, you should make yourself scarce. You don’t want to be around when it goes down. And if you’re not available, he can’t ask you more questions about the, ah, loans. I’ve told others the same,” he added cryptically.

  “I suppose this is what they pay us for,” said Richardson, looking furtive.

  “My dear fellow, we’re talking about millions and millions of dollars, here. What they pay us is a pittance compared to what they keep…”

  “I don’t know…”

  Worthington stopped and looked at Dr. Richardson. He said, “Yes, you do. Don’t give them a reason to doubt you, Paul.”

  * * *

  “We don’t get that many shootings in Cambridge,” said the detective. “Last year we had three murders, and they were all domestic issues.”

  Zeke nodded, looking at the crime scene.

  The police detective, who introduced himself as Feltman, was standing in the street about fifteen feet from an area that was marked off with police tape. Several men and women in dark blue clothing marked ‘CSI’ were packing up their equipment. Some wore matching blue hats. They all wore protective booties on their feet.

  The body had already been removed, but there was still a pack of onlookers, mostly students, standing behind the police line and watching and taking video footage with their smart phones.

  “So what happened was this kid, ID says his name was Peter Vartis,” said Feltman looking at his notebook, “he was in his car, stopped at the light,” he pointed up at a traffic light, “here on Monsignor O’Brien Highway. That’s Lechmere Station, by the way,” he said, pointing across the street. “He was sitting here when someone pulled up next to him and shot him through the driver’s side window.”

  “Any cameras in the area?” asked Zeke.

  “Sure,” said Feltman. “On the poles. I’ve got guys checking the recordings.”

  “But…” said Zeke.

  “But I’m not optimistic. From here, street level, it loo
ks like someone sprayed black paint on some of the cameras.”

  “Was this the car was he driving?” asked Zeke.

  “Yeah. Nice car. A brand new Porsche 911 in red. Some people have no respect. A shame to shoot up a car like that.”

  “Sure,” said Zeke.

  “All the blood ruins the leather interior,” continued Feltman.

  “What do we know about the victim?” asked Zeke.

  “He’s a student at Raleigh University. Had his student ID with him.”

  Zeke had just left the offices at Raleigh University, still pretending to work on the audit, when he’d received a call from Sally at The Agency.

  “The Cambridge Police just reported that there was a killing not far from where you are right now,” she said. “Four hours ago. It’s unusual to have a violent crime in Cambridge. Clive thinks it could be connected to the student loan thing, thought you might want to talk with the people in charge.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” said Zeke.

  Sally gave him the details, and agreed to have Clive call both Assistant Chief O’Malley and the Cambridge Police Chief. By the time Zeke arrived at the site, Feltman was expecting him.

  “How old was he?” asked Zeke.

  “License says he was about to turn twenty-two,” said Feltman. “Shame.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. But we’re still investigating,” said Feltman.

  Zeke looked around the crowded street. “Seems like someone would have seen something,” he said.

  “My thoughts, too. We’re checking.”

  “I understand there’s a lot of wealth in this part of the country,” said Zeke. “But that’s a ninety-thousand dollar car. Was the victim’s family wealthy?”

  “We don’t know yet. This just happened a few hours ago,” said Feltman, suddenly defensive.

  Zeke paused a moment. “Here’s my card. Call if I can help.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said the detective.

  * * *

  “Any witnesses?” asked Jobare Worthington.

  “No, no one that matters. And no cameras,” said Freddy Hanson.

  “So it’s done?”

  “Sure. You’ll read about it in the morning paper.”

  “I assume you mean the Globe.”

  Hanson said nothing. Worthington was sitting alone at his desk in his office at Raleigh University, his door closed. He was whispering into the phone.

  “So we don’t have anything to worry about?” Worthington added.

  “Not as far as the kid goes. Pretty stupid buying that car, though. Can you keep your people in line?” said Hanson. “We talked about this.”

  “I know. I had no idea,” said Worthington, again.

  “This is too big to have it screwed up by some pot head students,” said Hanson.

  “I know,” said Worthington, his voice pitched even higher than usual.

  “Keep your people in line, then,” Hanson repeated.

  * * *

  “Hey, Zeke, how are you, man?” asked Jerry Sebastian when Zeke answered his mobile phone. “Been a while.”

  “It has, Jerry,” said Zeke. “I’ve been bouncing around the country. My boss had a new assignment for me, and we’d finished up in Phoenix, so…”

  “Yeah, I figured it was something like that,” said Jerry. “Last time we talked, you said you were wrapping things up.”

  “Sure did.”

  “Are you back on Cape Cod, now?” Jerry asked.

  “No, Boston,” said Zeke. “I have a new consulting assignment here in Boston.”

  “Boston’s a nice city. I used to go there for long weekends when I was in college.”

  “In Pittsburgh, you said,” remembered Zeke.

  “Right,” said Jerry. “Well, do you have any more business out this way? Are you coming to do any follow-up in Phoenix?”

  “I will need to visit Phoenix again soon, Jerry. I need to debrief our client and turn in a final report,” Zeke said.

  “Well, I’ve officially got the RTM systems job,” said Jerry.

  “Congratulations,” said Zeke. “Are you liking it?”

  “Uh, yes, I am enjoying it. I like what I do,” said the killer.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m heading out your way, and maybe we can get together,” said Zeke.

  “I’d like that,” said Jerry. “Yeah, let me know.”

  * * *

  “I just spoke with him yesterday,” said Luis Cruz. “He said he’s in Boston, said he’s working.”

  “And?” asked Benito Diaz. They were in Diaz’s back yard, sitting in the afternoon heat.

  “And he says he’s coming back to Phoenix to close out with his last client.”

  “That would be ICE,” said Diaz. “Jorge Ramirez. Was he telling you the truth?”

  “Most likely. No reason to lie,” said the killer. “Either way, we’ll get close to him. Here or there.”

  “Yes,” said Diaz.

  “I don’t see him as a problem. He trusts me.”

  * * *

  Zeke dialed the phone.

  “4273,” said the female voice, answering on the second ring.

  “Hello, Tammy,” said Zeke, using the word code. “Can I get a message to Eric?” Eric was The Agency’s code name for Clive Greene, used on an unsecured line.

  “Hold on, please,” said the woman’s voice, almost wispy in its now-soft tone.

  Zeke held.

  There was a click on the line. “He’ll call you back in an hour,” she said.

  * * *

  Zeke’s secure phone rang exactly ten minutes later, and Clive said, “Have you been consorting with killers, then?”

  “I have,” said Zeke with a smile. “I think I’ll need to meet him in Phoenix and finish it.”

  “You still think he’s gunning for you?” asked Clive.

  “It’s a continuation of the refugee raid, retaliation by Diaz for my interference, or something like that,” said Zeke. “The Mara’s tried to take us out before we got started.”

  “So this will be more subtle, I suppose,” said Clive.

  “I think so. And while I’m out there, I’ll deal with Ramirez. He needs to be taken out of the SAC position.”

  “If Ramirez is the leak, Clark Hall agrees,” said Clive. “If that’s true, Ramirez is too dangerous and disruptive to stay in place. But be careful. If he turns quickly, he’ll be like a trapped animal,” said Clive.

  “Do we have enough evidence against him?” asked Zeke.

  “ICE went through phone records going back six months. Not only do we suspect that Ramirez is somehow involved in the human trafficking, but they’ve got him directly connected with Diaz’s phone number on several occasions.”

  “Sounds circumstantial,” said Zeke.

  “Sure, but his phone records also include multiple calls to the WITSEC group headquarters.”

  “Using his influence to arrange reassignments?” asked Zeke.

  “Maybe, or calling to find out where certain witnesses are being moved to. Either way, it puts him in the middle of it,” said Clive.

  “Do we know who he spoke with at WITSEC?” asked Zeke.

  “We do,” said Clive. “And as you’d expect, it was someone in the U.S. Marshal Service in Arlington.”

  Chapter 11

  “Ramirez sent over a copy of the original call,” said Sally, over the phone line, “of the anonymous tip that led to the raid on the house in Phoenix.”

  Zeke nodded, sitting in an overstuffed chair in his Cambridge hotel room. Then he said, “OK, good. And…”

  “And there was nothing there. Just a whispered male voice, Hispanic accent, speaking in semi-broken English. He called the Phoenix police tip line and said, ‘Note this address,’ and gave the address and then he said, ‘Prisa.’”

  “‘Prisa means hurry,” said Zeke. “But they didn’t hurry. According to Ramirez, they passed the call over to ICE. Then ICE ‘surveilled’ the plac
e for quite a while before the raid.”

  “Quite right,” said Clive Greene, also on the call. He was glancing through a paper file. “How would the police know that it wasn’t an emergency? Why didn’t they respond themselves?”

  “The house was in the Glenwood neighborhood,” said Zeke. “That’s a dense, populated area of Phoenix. If there was commotion or screaming from the house, it would probably have been heard by the neighbors.”

  Sally said, “It would have.”

  “What about the personnel search?” asked Zeke.

  “We’re pretty much through all of the personnel files,” said Sally.

  “What did you find that looks interesting?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, we did a check on each of the ICE personnel who could have been involved somehow in deflecting or steering the investigation. It seems like there are just a few that have the rank and the authority to do so.”

  “Let me guess,” said Zeke. “Ramirez is at the top of the list.”

  “And Jose Fernandez, his ICE Unit Commander. Fernandez organized the takedown in Phoenix.”

  “That was the raid that scored 17 refugees and no bad guys,” said Zeke.

  Clive made an affirming noise.

  “What’s Ramirez’s service history?” asked Zeke.

  Sally opened a file. “He was a Sergeant in the Border Patrol up until six years ago. Then he transferred to ICE and has worked his way up since then.”

  “Both organizations are part of Homeland Security. That was probably a pretty easy move for him. A transfer. How long did he work at Border Patrol?”

  “It says he was there for five years,” said Sally.

  “How about before that? Was he in law enforcement?” asked Zeke.

  “Before that, he was a prison guard in the U.S. Penitentiary at Tucson, Arizona,” said Sally. “He worked there for four years, after he was discharged from the Army.”