Without Remorse

  “What else do you have?”

  “The murders were drug-related. Both girls were mules.”

  “Bingo!” Allan exclaimed quietly. “Is your source in jail or what?”

  “I’m pushing the edge here, but—okay, I’ll level with you. My dad’s a preacher. He’s counseling the girl. Lieutenant, this is really off-the-record stuff, okay?”

  “I understand. What do you want me to do?”

  “Could you please forward the info to the investigating officers? They can contact me through the station.” Sergeant Meyer gave over his number. “I’m a watch supervisor here, and I have to roll out now to deliver a lecture at the academy. I’ll be back about four.”

  “Very well, Sergeant. I’ll pass that along. Thanks a lot for the input. You’ll be hearing from Em and Tom. Depend on it.” Jesus, we’ll give Pittsburgh the fuckin’ Series to bag these bastards. Allen switched buttons on his phone.

  “Hey, Frank,” Lieutenant Ryan said. When he set his coffee cup down, it appeared like slow-motion. That stopped when he picked up a pen. “Keep talking. I’m writing this down.”

  Sergeant Douglas was late this morning because of an accident on 1-83. He came in with his usual coffee and danish to see his boss scribbling furiously.

  “Brushed out the hair? He said that?” Ryan asked. Douglas leaned across the desk, and the look in Ryan’s eyes was like that of a hunter who just heard the first rustle in the leaves. “Okay, what names did he—” The detective’s hand balled into a fist. A long breath. “Okay, Frank, where is this guy? Thanks. ’Bye.”

  “Break?”

  “Pittsburgh,” Ryan said.

  “Huh?”

  “Call from a police sergeant in Pittsburgh, a possible witness in the murders of Pamela Madden and Helen Waters.”

  “No shit?”

  “This is the one who brushed her hair, Tom. And guess what other names came along with it?”

  “Richard Farmer and William Grayson?”

  “Rick and Billy. Close enough? Possible mule for a drug ring. Wait...” Ryan leaned back, staring at the yellowed ceiling. “There was a girl there when Farmer was killed—we think there was,” he corrected himself. “It’s the connection, Tom. Pamela Madden, Helen Waters, Farmer, Grayson, they’re all related ... and that means—”

  “The pushers, too. All connected somehow. What connects them, Em? We know they were all—probably all—in the drug business.”

  “Two different MOs, Tom. The girls were slaughtered like—no, you don’t even do that to cattle. All the rest, though, all of them were taken down by the Invisible Man. Man on a mission! That’s what Farber said, a man on a mission.”

  “Revenge,” Douglas said, pacing Ryan’s analysis on his own. “If one of those girls was close to me—Jesus, Em, who could blame him?”

  There was only one person connected with either murder who’d been close with a victim, and he was known to the police department, wasn’t he? Ryan grabbed his phone and called back to Lieutenant Allen.

  “Frank, what was the name of that guy who worked the Gooding case, the Navy guy?”

  “Kelly, John Kelly, he found the gun off Fort McHenry, then downtown contracted him to train our divers, remember? Oh! Pamela Madden! Jesus!” Allen exclaimed when the connection became clear.

  “Tell me about him, Frank.”

  “Hell of a nice guy. Quiet, kinda sad—lost his wife, auto accident or something.”

  “Veteran, right?”

  “Frogman, underwater demolitions. That’s how he earns his living, blowing things up. Underwater stuff, like.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Physically he’s pretty tough, takes care of himself.” Allen paused. “I saw him dive, there’s some marks on him, scars, I mean. He’s seen combat and caught some fire. I got his address and all if you want.”

  “I have it in my case file, Frank. Thanks, buddy.” Ryan hung up. “He’s our guy. He’s the Invisible Man.”

  “Kelly?”

  “I have to be in court this morning—damn it!” Ryan swore.

  “Nice to see you again,” Dr. Farber said. Monday was an easy day for him. He’d seen his last patient of the day and was heading out for after-lunch tennis with his sons. The cops had barely caught him heading out of his office.

  “What do you know about UDT guys?” Ryan asked, walking out into the corridor with him.

  “Frogmen, you mean? Navy?”

  “That’s right. Tough, are they?”

  Farber grinned around his pipe. “They’re the first guys on the beach, ahead of the Marines. What do you think?” He paused. Something clicked in his mind. “There’s something even better now.”

  “What do you mean?” the detective lieutenant asked.

  “Well, I still do a little work for the Pentagon. Hopkins does a lot of things for the government. Applied Physics Lab, lots of special things. You know my background.” He paused. “Sometimes I do psychological testing, consulting—what combat does to people. This is classified material, right? There’s a new special-operations group. It’s a spin-off of UDT. They call them SEALs now, for Sea Air Land—they’re commandos, real serious folks, and their existence is not widely known. Not just tough. Smart. They’re trained to think, to plan ahead. Not just muscle. Brains, too.”

  “Tattoo,” Douglas said, remembering. “He has a tattoo of a seal on his arm.”

  “Doc, what if one of these SEAL guys had a girl who was brutally murdered?” It was the most obvious of questions, but he had to ask it.

  “That’s the mission you were looking for,” Farber said, heading out the door, unwilling to reveal anything else, even for a murder investigation.

  “That’s our boy. Except for one thing,” Ryan said quietly to the closed door.

  “Yeah. No evidence. Just one hell of a motive.”

  Nightfall. It had been a dreary day for everyone at SENDER GREEN except for Kelly. The parade ground was mush, with fetid puddles, large and small. The soldiers had spent most of the day trying to keep dry. Those in the towers had adjusted their position to the shifting winds. Weather like this did things to people. Most humans didn’t like being wet. It made them irritable and dull of mind, all the more so if their duty was also boring, as it was here. In North Vietnam, weather like this meant fewer air attacks, yet another reason for the men down below to relax. The increasing heat of the day had energized the clouds, adding moisture to them which the clouds just as quickly gave back to the ground.

  What a shitty day, all the guards would be saying to one another over their dinner. All would nod and concentrate on their meals, looking down, not up, looking inward, not outward. The woods would be damp. It was far quieter to walk on wet leaves than dry ones. No dry twigs to snap. The humid air would muffle sound, not transmit it. It was, in a word, perfect.

  Kelly took the opportunity of the darkness to move around some, stiff from the inactivity. He sat up under his bush, brushing off his skin and eating more of his ration concentrates. He drained down a full canteen, then stretched his arms and legs. He could see the LZ, and had already selected his path to it, hoping the Marines wouldn’t be trigger-happy when he ran down towards them. At twenty-one hundred he made his final radio transmission.

  Light Green, the technician wrote on his pad. Activity Normal.

  “That’s it. That’s the last thing we need.” Maxwell looked at the others. Everyone nodded.

  “Operation BOXWOOD GREEN, Phase Four, commences at twenty-two hundred. Captain Franks, make signal to Newport News.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  On Ogden, flight crews dressed in their fire-protective suits, then walked aft to preflight their aircraft. They found sailors wiping all the windows. In the troop spaces, the Marines were donning their striped utilities. Weapons were clean. Magazines were full with fresh ammo just taken from airtight containers. The individual grunts paired off, each man applying camouflage paint to his counterpart. No smiles or joking now. They were as serious as actor
s on opening night, and the delicacy of the makeup work gave a strange counterpoint to the nature of the evening’s performance. Except for one of their number.

  “Easy on the eye shadow, sir,” Irvin told a somewhat jumpy Captain Albie, who had the usual commander’s jitters and needed a sergeant to steady him down.

  In the squadron ready room aboard USS Constellation, a diminutive and young squadron commander named Joshua Painter led the briefing. He had eight F-4 Phantoms loaded for bear.

  “We’re covering a special operation tonight. Our targets are SAM sites south of Haiphong.” he went on, not knowing what it was all about, hoping that it was worth the risk to the fifteen officers who would fly with him tonight, and that was just his squadron. Ten A-6 Intruders were also flying Iron Hand, and most of the rest of Corenie’s air wing would trail their coats up the coast, throwing as much electronic noise into the air as they could. He hoped it was all as important as Admiral Podulski had said. Playing games with SAM sites wasn’t exactly fun.

  Newport News was twenty-five miles off the coast now, approaching a point that would put her exactly between Ogden and the beach. Her radars were off, and the shore stations probably didn’t know quite where she was. After the last few days the NVA were getting a little more circumspect about using their coastal surveillance systems. The Captain was sitting in his bridge chair. He checked his watch and opened a sealed manila envelope, reading quickly through the action orders he’d had in his safe for two weeks.

  “Hmm.” he said to himself. Then: “Mr. Shoeman, have engineering bring boilers one and four fully on line. I want full power available as soon as possible. We’re doing some more surfing tonight. My compliments to the XO, gunnery officer, and his chiefs. I want them in my at-sea cabin at once.”

  “Aye, sir.” The officer of the deck made the necessary notifications. With all four of her boilers on line, Newport News could make thirty-four knots, the quicker to close the beach, and the quicker to depart from it.

  “Surf City, here we come!” the petty officer at the wheel sang out loud as soon as the Captain was off the bridge. It was the official ship’s joke—because the Captain liked it—actually made up several months before by a seaman first-class. It meant going inshore, right into the surf, for some shooting. “Goin’ to Surf City, where it’s two-to-one!”

  “Mark your head, Baker,” the OOD called to end the chorus.

  “Steady on one-eight-five, Mr. Shoeman.” His body moved to the beat. Surf City, here we come!

  “Gentlemen, in case you’re wondering what we’ve done to deserve the fun of the past few days, this is it,” the Captain said in his cabin just off the bridge. He explained on for several minutes. On his desk was a map of the coastal area, with every triple-A battery marked from data on aerial and satellite photographs. His gunnery department looked things over. There were plenty of hilltops for good radar references.

  “Oh, yeah!” the master chief firecontrolman breathed. “Sir, everything? Five-inchers. too?”

  The skipper nodded. “Chief Skelley, if we bring any ammo back to Subic, I’m going to be very disappointed with you.”

  “Sir, I propose we use number-three five-inch mount for star shell and shoot visually as much as we can.”

  It was an exercise in geometry, really. The gunnery experts—that included the commanding officer—leaned across the map and decided quickly how it would be done. They were already briefed on the mission; the only change was that they had expected to do it in daylight.

  “There won’t be anybody left alive to fire on those helos, sir.”

  The growler phone on the CO’s desk rang. He grabbed it. “Captain speaking.”

  “All four boilers are now on line, sir. Full-speed bell is thirty, flank is thirty-three.”

  “Nice to know the ChEng is all awake. Very well. Sound General Quarters.” He hung up the phone as the ship’s gong started sounding. “Gentlemen, we have some Marines to protect,” he said confidently. His cruiser’s gunnery department was as fine as Mississippi’s had ever been. Two minutes later he was back on the bridge.

  “Mr. Shoeman, I have the conn.”

  “Captain has the conn,” the OOD agreed.

  “Right-standard rudder, come to new course two-six-five.”

  “Right-standard rudder, aye, come to new course two-six-five, aye.” Petty Officer Sam Baker rotated the wheel. “Sir, my rudder is right-standard.”

  “Very well,” the Captain acknowledged, adding, “Surf City, here we come!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” the helmsman hooted back. The skipper was really with it for an old fart.

  It was the time for nerves now. What could go wrong? Kelly asked himself atop his hill. Lots of things. The helicopters might collide in midair. They might come right over an unknown flak site and be blotted from the sky. Some little widget or seal could let go, crashing them to the ground. What if the local National Guard was having a training exercise tonight? Something was always left to chance. He’d seen missions go wrong for any number of dumb and unpredictable reasons. But not tonight, he promised himself. Not with all this preparation. The helo crews had trained intensively for three weeks, as had the Marines. The birds had been lovingly maintained. The sailors on Ogden had invented helpful things to do. You could never eliminate risk, but preparation and training could attenuate it. Kelly made sure his weapon was in proper shape and stayed in a tight sitting position. This wasn’t sitting in a corner house in west Baltimore. This was real. This would enable him to put it all behind. His attempt to save Pam had ended in failure due to his error, but perhaps it had had a purpose after all. He’d made no mistakes for this mission. Nobody had. He wasn’t rescuing one person. He was rescuing twenty. He checked the illuminated dial of his watch. The sweep hand was moving so slowly now. Kelly closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them it would move more quickly. It didn’t. He knew better. The former Chief of SEALs commanded himself to take a deep breath and continue the mission. For him that meant laying the carbine across his lap and concentrating on his binoculars. His reconnaissance had to continue right to the moment the first M-79 grenades were fired at the guard towers. The Marines were counting on him.

  Well, maybe this would show the guys from Philly how important he was. Henry’s operation breaks down and I handle things. Eddie Morello is important, he thought, stoking the fires of his own ego as he drove up Route 40 towards Aberdeen.

  Idiot can’t run his own operation, can’t get dependable people. I told Tony he was too smart for his own good, too clever, not really a serious businessman—Oh, no, he’s serious. He’s more serious than you are, Eddie. Henry is going be the first nigger to get “made.” You watch. Tony is going to do it. Can’t do it for you. Your own cousin can’t do it for you, after you connected him with Henry. Goddamned deal wouldn’t be made except for me. I made the deal but I can’t get made.

  “Fuck!” he snarled at a red light. Somebody starts taking Henry’s operation apart and they ask me to check it out. Like Henry can’t figure things out himself. Probably can’t, not as smart as he thinks he is. So then what—he gets between me and Tony.

  That was it, wasn’t it? Eddie thought. Henry wanted to separate me from Piaggi—just like he got them to take Angelo out. Angelo was his first connection. Angelo introduced him to me ... I introduced him to Tony ... Tony and I handle the connection with Philly and New York ... Angelo and me were a pair of connections ... Angelo was the weak one ... and Angelo gets whacked ...

  Tony and I are another pair of connections ...

  He only needs one, doesn’t he? Just one connection to the rest of the outfit.

  Separating me from Tony...

  Fuck.

  Morello fished in his pocket for a cigarette and punched the lighter on his Cadillac convertible. The top was down. Eddie liked the sun and the wind. It was almost like being out on his fishing boat. It also gave him fine visibility. That it made him somewhat easier to spot and trail hadn’t occurred to him. Next to him
, on the floor, was a leather attaché case. Inside that were six kilos of pure stuff. Philadelphia, they’d told him, was real short, and would handle the cutting themselves. Big cash deal. The identical case that was now southbound would be filled with nothing smaller than twenties. Two guys. Nothing to worry about. They were pros, and this was a long-term business relationship. He didn’t have to worry about a rip, but he had his snubby anyway, concealed under his loose shirt, just at his belt buckle, the most useful, most uncomfortable place.

  He had to think this one through, Morello told himself urgently. He might just have it all figured out. Henry was manipulating them. Henry was manipulating the outfit. A jig was trying to outthink them.

  And succeeding. Probably he whacked his own people. The fuck liked to shit all over women—especially white ones. That figured, Morello thought. They were all like that. Thought he was pretty smart, probably. Well, he was pretty smart. But not smart enough. Not anymore. It wouldn’t be hard to explain all of this to Tony. Eddie was sure of that. Make the transfer and drive back. Dinner with Tony. Be calm and reasonable. Tony likes that. Like he went to Harvard or something. Like a damned lawyer. Then we work on Henry, and we take over his operation. It was business. His people would play. They weren’t in it because they loved him. They were in it for the money. Everybody was. And then he and Tony could take the operation over, and then Eddie Morello would be a made man.

  Yeah. He had it all figured out now. Morello checked the time. He was right on as he pulled into the half-empty parking lot of a diner. The old-fashioned kind, made from a railroad car—the Pennsylvania Railroad was close by. He remembered his first meal out of the house with his father, in a place just like this, watching the trains go past. The memory made him smile as he finished the cigarette and flipped it onto the blacktop.