Ukrainian, a Slav, a Thai?'
'What are you talking about?'
'The United States.' Tischler shook his head and turned to walk away.
Kendal grabbed his shoulder. 'What the hell do you mean?'
'I mean that I can't even appear to be interested in this matter. If you would please let me go.'
Kendal released his hand, and Tischler walked away from him, not looking back.
What does everyone on the planet fear?
The United States. . .
What was Tischler talking about? It was obvious that he knew more than he admitted. Kendal doubted the Israelis shied away from any information—but Tischler's comment about 'appearing to be interested,' that was chilling. The intelligence relationship between the U.S. and Israel was close enough that they often—not a lot, but often—shared intelligence with each other.
But Tischler had just about said that what was going on was sensitive enough that it would cause an incident if the Israelis were involved, or expressed interest in it. The way he'd said it made Kendal think that Tischler believed that that kind of incident might lead to war.
Kendal fingered the Saudi disk in his pocket and wondered what could've scared Tischler that bad.
1.10 Sat. Mar. 7
GIDEON drove his Nissan through Brookland. He hoped he was driving toward one of the men responsible for his brother's death.
After calling on Kendal for help, he had spent all night nonstop on the computer, paging through the department's computer records. Somehow, there was some concrete connection between Lionel and the Daedalus. Gideon was obsessed with finding that connection.
How did he know that the Daedalus was there? And what was it that he wanted to sell to Gideon for three hundred dollars?
Gideon had spent most of the night pulling the sheets for Lionel's known associates. He felt that Lionel must have gotten his information from one of the creeps he hung out with.
On the seat next to him a printout from his computer was weighted down by his crutch. It was the results of that search. He had found one possibility that made sense—Franklin Alexander 'Davy' Jones.
The man had started out in assault and car theft and had graduated all the way to truck hijacking. He had spent a stretch of time in the same prison as Lionel, and they had been released together. Of all the names Gideon looked into, Davy seemed the most likely candidate for involvement in the Daedalus theft and Gideon could see him as the driver of the truck that never showed.
And one of the last things that Lionel had ever said was the guy's name.
Gideon pulled to a shuddering stop on the street in front of Davy's apartment building. The lurching stop was due to his bad leg and arm. He probably shouldn't have been driving. The only thing that made it possible was the fact he drove an automatic. A manual would be near impossible with his cast.
As the Nissan's engine ticked into dormancy, Gideon looked up at Davy's building. It wasn't the most inviting of places, a pile of sooty brick with a dozen plywood-covered windows. An old man sat on the stoop eyeing him suspiciously.
He spent about five minutes maneuvering out of the car and getting himself positioned on his crutch. Outside, in the cold air, he could smell the rubber of his own car, and the fainter smell of an old fire hanging in the air.
Gideon psyched himself for the ascent. The bastard lived on the third floor.
For a few moments, he forgot Raphael and considered leaving the whole thing alone. Let the rest of the department deal with it. He was supposed to be on leave. He was too caught up in this, and he probably wasn't thinking clearly.
But if he didn't go, who was going to keep the whole thing from being buried?
He had drawn his brother into this, and he was the only person who cared enough to make certain that the people responsible were held accountable.
Gideon looked up the steps and remembered an event from years ago, something he hadn't thought about, or even remembered, in nearly twenty years. It had happened back in grade school. He had come home from school— run home was more like it—with a black eye and a busted lip. He didn't remember now who had beat him up, or why, but he did remember his older brother, Rafe, carefully explaining how he couldn't run, or forget about it, because if he let them get away with it, they would do it again. He could fight back or call the cops, but he couldn't run away or ignore it. Eventually, Gideon had fought back. He felt as if Rafe was talking to him here now. 'You can fight back, or call the cops, but you can’t run away or ignore it. . .'
If he left this alone, there wasn't going to be a prosecution, or any public hearings. Right now, there was only him and Kendal. And Kendal doubted that there was anything more to what happened than what the papers said.
Even if there wasn't a conspiracy to bury the investigation, why would his department deal with it?
They were understaffed, and already had the shooters. The computer's theft wasn't their jurisdiction, and any new information would be making a tied-up case more complicated— A case the Administration wanted to turn into a political asset.
If he passed the buck on it, he doubted anyone would even follow up on Davy.
'You can’t run away or ignore it. . .'
And, damn it, he was the cops.
Gideon sighed and made his way up to the apartment. As he levered himself across the stoop, one step at a time, the old guy looked up at him and said, 'I know you, Chief.'
Gideon shook his head and said, 'I don't think so.' He didn't look down at the man. It took all his concentration to pull himself up the steps. At one point the crutch landed on a plastic bag and nearly slipped out from under him, but he managed to recover and reach the front door.
'Yeah, Chief. You that cop they shot up.'
Gideon had no choice but to nod. He looked at the intercom. It was painted over and looked as if it hadn't worked in ages.
The old man kept talking at him. 'You should get another job, Chief. Cop in this town ain't no job for nobody. No folks deserve that kind of shit.'
'When you're right, you're right,' Gideon muttered. He tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. It didn't even have a doorknob. He had to grab hold of the hole where the knob should be and pull the door open. The smell of piss and mildew slapped him in the face like a wet, moldy towel.
He started up the steps.
It seemed to take an hour to climb all the way up to Davy's apartment, though it probably wasn't more than ten minutes. He had to stop next to Davy's door for nearly as long just to catch his breath.
When he had collected himself, he pounded on Davy's door with his cast.
'Mr. Jones,' Gideon called. 'Police. I need to talk to you.'
There was no response.
Gideon pounded a few more times. As he did, the copper taste of his exertion left his mouth, and he became aware of a smell.
There's nothing quite like the odor of a dead human body that's been allowed to sit a few days. A slightly wet, greasy smell—something close to rancid bacon fat. It hadn't reached full flower, and the neighbors might not have noticed it yet, but standing this close to the door, the hint of death was unmistakable.
'Fuck,' Gideon said as he instinctively raised his good hand to his mouth.
Well if that ain’t probable cause, I don’t know what is.
Gideon tried the door, and found it locked. He turned and pushed his good shoulder into the door. He felt it give a little even with his weak attempt. The deadbolt wasn't set. Gideon tried twice more, resting between each attempt.
