“Leaning closer to it every minute.”
“I wish you’d go ahead and do it. It would make my life easier. This thing is giving me an itch between my shoulder blades. You know what I mean.”
It was the kind of feeling good soldiers get when they think a sniper might be out there in the tall grass, hidden by greasepaint and camo, peering at you with a scope, adjusting his gun sights for windage, finger laid along the trigger guard, a round ready in the chamber.
“I’m starting to get the same itch,” I told him, and disconnected.
Before I could even put my phone away, it buzzed to indicate a text. Same as before. Which meant the app was back on. Somehow. The text message was:
I’m sorry.
I sighed. Probably Lydia Rose realizing that she shouldn’t have been texting me earlier and texting back to apologize.
Thanks. Is this you, LR—?
The reply was a while in coming, and when it popped onto the screen it suddenly chilled the day:
She wants to kill them all.
She wants me to do it.
I typed:
Who is this?!
The reply dropped the temperature on an already chilly moment:
I don’t want to go to hell.
Is there a hell?
I don’t know, but I’m afraid of it.
I tried again to get whoever it was to identify himself, but this time there was no reply. I texted again. Nothing.
Well … shit. What the hell was this?
I quickly took a MindReader uplink from my pocket and plugged it into the charging port. The device flashed green for a split second and then began flashing red. Unreadable signal. That was very disturbing, because there isn’t much that we can’t trace. In the past, our trace-back technology has only been stumped twice, first by Hugo Vox and later by former DMS computer expert Artemisia Bliss after she went bugfuck nuts and started calling herself Mother Night. After we stopped her we acquired her science, and it’s since been integrated into ours. Our communication is absolutely state of the art, second to none.
I took my earbud kit out of my pocket and put it on and tapped to the channel for Bug. He listened to everything, then asked permission to access my phone via the MindReader uplink. I gave it, and there was silence on the line for a minute.
“Cowboy,” said Bug as he came back online, “I’m not finding any trace at all of your cell receiving a text. What I see are the ones you sent asking who was texting, but that’s it. Everything’s one way.”
“Not good enough, Bug. Someone’s dogging me.” Ghost looked up, and I shook my head. “I didn’t mean you, fuzzball.”
“They’re masking their signal,” said Bug.
“No shit. There’s every possibility that’s why I called you.”
“Sorry.”
“And I keep turning the text app off and they keep turning it back on. How’s that happening? I mean, is that even possible?”
“Of course it’s possible. The app works off a switch programmed-in as part of the operating system. Code is code; it can be changed, hacked, tweaked, upgraded, or rewritten. Did you download any upgrades to your phone lately?”
“No.”
“Well, something happened. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. But unless you want to attach this to an active file it’ll have to wait. We’re swamped right now trying to make sense of what happened down South.”
“Let me know when you find out something,” I said. “Make it quick. This is spooking me.”
“You got it.”
When the call was over, I checked the phone display and saw that all the incoming texts were indeed gone. Shit.
“Everyone okay?” asked Sean as he came over.
“Life’s a peach,” I said.
We got into the rental and drove over to the medical examiner’s office to drop Rudy off. On the way I told Sean most of what Sam had said, and I could see relief and outrage in equal portions. And some fear.
“What now?” Sean asked as Rudy disappeared inside the building.
“Now,” I said, “we stop being bystanders. I know it’s been gnawing your ass as much as mine to do nothing, but we had to let the tech boys clean things up. That’s done. We’re good, and I have some stuff running in the background. So that means we’re off the bench. First play is to go visit Vee Rejenko.”
“We don’t have anything concrete on him yet,” said Sean.
I shrugged. “You have a better plan?”
“No.”
“Then let’s go shake his tree a little.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
1800 WASHINGTON BOULEVARD
MONTGOMERY PARK OFFICE BUILDING
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 10:51 AM
We pulled into the tree-lined parking lot of a newly renovated office building at the corner of Washington and South Monroe. One of those blocky places made from white concrete and smoked glass. There were eighty or ninety cars in the lot. Sedans, mostly. Midsized, not very expensive except for the occasional BMW or Lexus that probably belonged to the bosses. Everyone else was driving Nissans, Hondas, Hyundais, and Toyotas.
“Vee’s office is here?” I said. “Not what I expected. Thought he’d be the kind to do business out of the back of a Russian bar or one of those men’s social clubs.”
“You’ve been off the streets too long, Joe,” Sean said. “It’s all about image these days. Ten levels of distance between the executives and the street. They want real estate that sells whatever legitimate business is on their tax returns. Push comes to shove, they want a jury to look at them, at how they dress, at photos of their offices and wonder how on earth a prosecuting attorney could think they were involved in anything hinkier than cheating on their golf handicap. The old days of Mafia dons in sweat suits playing dominoes in the back of a barbershop are long gone. There’ll be security cameras at the doors and in the lobby, and I’ll bet you a hundred bucks Vee has his lawyer on the phone before we get out of the elevator.”
I shrugged. “I’ll do my best to be impressed.”
We got out. Ghost came bounding onto the pavement, wagging his tail like a happy puppy. He was always good at reading my mood, and his happy wag and smiling dog face were not at all an indication that he was expecting a tummy rub. His titanium teeth gleamed in the sunlight. Ghost had lost six real teeth in combat, and he absolutely loved showing off the replacements.
“Shouldn’t we leave him in the car?” asked Sean.
“Nah.”
“We can leave the windows open.”
“Not my point,” I said. Without explaining, I opened the back, fished in a pocket of my suitcase, and removed a small object. It was about the same size and shape as a poker chip but with a bulge in the middle. I pressed the bulge and felt the tiny switch inside click on, then I tossed the device on the floor of the back seat and closed the rear hatch. Sean watched me do all this. He nodded in the general direction of the device.
“That some kind of booby trap? It’s awfully small.”
“It’s a short-range proximity sensor. Sends me a signal if anyone approaches the car, or tries to get in.”
He looked unimpressed. “Nifty.”
“Useful. I don’t like surprises.”
What I didn’t tell him was that my own car back home had been tricked out by our mechanic, Mike Harnick, and had weapons hidden in concealed compartments, body armor, Taser pads on the outside, and everything in the James Bond catalog. He even installed an ejector seat, because he thought I was serious when I said I wanted one. I’ve learned not to make those kinds of jokes anymore. Mike’s a little crazy.
We went inside. A pretty black receptionist looked up with an inquisitive smile. “And how may I help you, gentlemen?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Rejenko,” said Sean as he breezed past her. I followed and gave the woman one of my patented smiles. So did Ghost.
“Do you have an appointment?” she called.
“He’
s expecting us,” I lied.
There was an elderly security guard standing by the elevators. He was the least imposing security person I’ve ever seen. Best guess is that he was three hundred years old and probably hadn’t drawn his service weapon since before the Battle of Bunker Hill. He was so absurdly ineffectual-looking that his presence seemed to be an ironic statement about all such rent-a-cops. He studied Ghost with rheumy eyes and said, “Animals ain’t allowed.”
I said, “He’s my emotional-support animal.”
The man considered that, nodded as if it seemed reasonable, and leaned back against the wall. The elevator doors closed behind us.
“Vee’s on the fifth floor,” said Sean. “He’ll know we’re coming.”
“Sure.”
“Are you going to keep your shit together, Joe? I don’t want you going all napalm on people.”
“Going napalm” was an expression the disciplinarian in our high school used to use, mostly to describe my actions when I was in gear.
“Me?” I said. “You wound me.”
“I’m serious. This is a straightforward interview. We just want to ask Vee a couple of questions and get a bead on him. I don’t want to spook him, and I don’t want to turn this into some kind of incident.”
I crossed my heart and held a hand to God.
The doors binged and slid open, and we stepped out into the lobby of a very sophisticated and upscale suite of offices. Rich carpets in a neutral color, lots of dark woods and glass, big frameless Impressionist paintings on the walls, indirect lighting, and soft music playing. Classical Czech orchestral stuff. Dvořák, I think. Or maybe Vilém Blodek. More security up here, but better. A very large man was waiting for us when the doors opened. He had the widest set of shoulders I’ve seen on any living creature that wasn’t one of the great apes. Big arms, no neck at all, a head like an oversized thimble, and a face like an eroded wall. He was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue suit with a narrow chalk stripe. He blocked the doorway so we couldn’t get off.
“This is the wrong floor,” he said. His accent was downtown Prague. Quite cultured for someone who was evidently a bridge troll. The door started to close, and I placed my hand against the frame to keep it open.
“We’re here to see Mr. Rejenko,” I told him.
“No,” said Bridge Troll.
Sean flashed a badge. The man looked amused. I took a set of NSA credentials from my pocket and held them up. He looked even more amused.
“Please remove your hand from the elevator door,” he said. “And go back down.”
“What’s our second choice?” I asked. Ghost let out a low growl.
Bridge Troll kept smiling. “You are on private property.”
“National security,” I said.
“Show me a warrant.”
“National security,” I repeated, saying it very slowly, enunciating each syllable.
“Go fuck your mother in the ass,” he said, just as slowly and precisely.
“Joe…” warned Sean under his breath.
I turned to him. “I’m not doing anything.”
I said that as I kicked Bridge Troll in the nuts.
He was monstrously big, no doubt very dangerous, and highly trained, and could probably bench-press a Ford F-150, but there’s this whole shoe-leather-to-nut-sack ratio that spoiled the math for him. His body collapsed in on itself, shrinking into a knot of pain as he grabbed his crotch and staggered backward with tiny, mincing steps. I stepped out of the elevator, took hold of Bridge Troll by the collar and the belt, and ran him three steps into the opposite wall. He hit headfirst, rebounded, and sat down hard on his ass, his eyes going dull and blank. Ghost lunged at him, but I snapped a command and the fur monster skidded to a reluctant halt.
“Jesus Christ, Joe!” complained Sean.
I ignored him and patted Bridge Troll down, took away a Czech CZ 75 pistol, and then shoved him over onto his side. “So hard to believe that you’re the sperm that survived,” I said. “That must have been your best day, but I suspect you’ve lost ground since. So do yourself a favor and stay down, okay? You’re not as good at this as you think.”
He was unable to articulate a single syllable. Just to be sure he didn’t get ideas, I zip-cuffed his hands to the back of his leather belt. There was a commotion behind us, and I saw a secretarial type with a shocked expression standing up behind a desk, a phone raised to her ear. I pointed a finger at her.
“Don’t.”
She lowered the phone, scared and uncertain. I put Bridge Troll’s pistol into my waistband, pulled my own piece, and kept it down at my side. I still had my identification wallet, and I tried to calm the secretary down by showing it to her. She looked ready to pass out.
“Where’s your boss?” I demanded.
She didn’t answer—perhaps not daring to help us in any way that could come back to bite her—but her eyes shifted toward the left. Past her was a row of cubicles with scared faces leaning out or over the fabric-covered walls, and at the back of the office was a big hardwood door that was currently closed. Sean held up his badge, but didn’t draw his piece, and walked down the row toward Rejenko’s office.
“Baltimore police,” he announced very loudly. “I want everyone to remain in their seats. No one is to leave this office; no one is to make a call or a text. Sit with your hands on your desk. Please do it now.”
Sean knew as well as I did that we had absolutely no legal authority to ask anyone to do anything. The office staff may even have known that, but they all placed their hands on their desks like obedient schoolchildren. I sent Ghost after him and I followed, gun down at my side, showing the NSA credentials to anyone I thought might be impressed. They all looked at me, and then past me to where Bridge Troll was on his knees vomiting up what looked like Cheerios. Very attractive.
The door to Rejenko’s office opened, and another very large thug in a suit peered out. He read the situation a little more clearly than his friend had and raised his hands as he backed away from the open door. We went in and I closed the door.
Vsevolod Rejenko sat behind a desk that was almost big enough to play Ping-Pong on. Polished walnut, with a green blotter, a green-globe lamp, a pen and a phone, and nothing else on it. Rejenko didn’t look like a Czech gangster. He looked like an accountant. Dark hair swept back and thinning, tired eyes, a beaky nose, small mouth in a pudgy face that was at odds with a lean body. He had on a shirt and tie, and suspenders, the jacket on a hanger hooked over the brass arm of an old-fashioned hat rack. There were lots of ugly green plants in pottery stands around the room, and the air smelled of cigarettes and McDonald’s French fries. The other thug still had his hands up, so Sean gave a philosophic shrug and frisked him, which produced a handgun identical to the one I’d taken from Bridge Troll. Sean removed the magazine and ejected the extra round, catching it before it fell. He placed the gun and the magazine on the desk and stood the bullet next to them. He also took the man’s wallet, studied the ID, then placed it in a neat line with the rest.
“Ghost,” I said, “watch.”
Ghost went and sat directly in front of the big man, his titanium teeth almost exactly on a line with the guy’s crotch. It was an eloquent statement that could be understood in any language on the planet. I told the man to lower his arms, which he did, but then he tried his best to turn into one of the decorative plants.
“You carrying?” I asked Vee Rejenko.
“No,” he said.
“If I check, will this get weird?”
He shook his head. “Go ahead. I don’t like guns.”
He had an accent, but it was less pronounced than that of the meathead I’d kicked. Because I’m not a very trusting person, I made him stand up so I could pat him down. He was clean.
“Now,” said Vee, sitting down, “what exactly are we doing, gentlemen? You come in here and assault one of my employees. You wave guns around. I don’t see a warrant.”
Sean sat down in one of two very nice burgundy lea
ther guest chairs. I strolled the room for a moment, touching the leaves of the ficus plant, straightening a slightly crooked framed photo of Vee with a pretty woman whose plastic smile made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled to be with him. I opened a humidor and sniffed the Cuban cigars. Then I went and sat down in the other guest chair. The gun I’d taken from Bridge Troll was still tucked into the back of my waistband, so I removed it and repeated the unloading action Sean had done. Everyone watched me do all this. It was only after I sat back and crossed my legs that Sean spoke.
“Holly Sterman,” he said.
I watched Vee’s face. There’s usually a reaction, however small. A tell, they call it. But he was good. He looked mildly puzzled and shook his head. “Who?”
“Aka Kya,” said Sean.
Vee pursed his lips. “You’re not making any sense. Who is this person, and why are we talking about her?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh? That’s sad. Why tell me?”
“She used to work for you.”
“Hmm … I don’t think so.”
“Her body was found at the Imperial Hotel on Balmor Place.”
“No,” said Vee, “still nothing. I’ve never heard of that girl.”
“Who said she was a girl?” I asked. “All we said was that she was dead.”
Vee smiled, almost as if acknowledging a point. “I’m old-fashioned. I call all women girls. I call all men guys. It’s a thing.”
Sean said, “She was a fourteen-year-old working as a prostitute in a hotel serviced by your linen companies.”
Vee snorted. “My linen company services hundreds of hotels, hospitals, nursing homes, and other facilities. We’re the third-largest provider of linens and related items in Maryland. I have over two hundred employees. I also have nine other companies.”
“And you’ve never heard of Holly Sterman or Kya?” said Sean, making it a frank question.
Vee sat back in his chair and glanced at his wristwatch. “My attorney should be here in five minutes. If you want to wait, I can have coffee brought in.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but we’re good.”
We all looked at one another for a moment. Vee smiled at me; I smiled at him. Sean looked at his hands, the thug looked at Ghost, and Ghost looked at the man’s nuts. I took a tissue from my pocket, blew my nose very loudly, and dropped it into the trash can beside his desk.