'I'll be there at eight-fifteen,' I said. Just then a large moving van turned onto the street and pulled up in front of our building. The driver climbed out, looking at a manifest, and eyed us both.
'One of you Henry Parker?' he said.
'That'd be me.'
The driver nodded, went around to the back to start unloading their gear.
'Looks like you've got a long night ahead of you.
Don't be late tomorrow.'
'I won't.'
'I know.' Jack turned to leave.
'Hey, Jack?' I said.
'Yeah, kid?'
'It's good to have you back.'
He smirked at me, said, 'I'm not back yet. There's a whole lot of story out there and we haven't even started yet.'
I watched Jack leave, then went back inside and took the elevator to my apartment. Amanda let me in.
'So, that was Jack? How is he?'
'He's great,' I said, my mind already starting to think about all the threads that needed pulling. Then I saw all the boxes waiting for us to pack up, thought about the movers that would be up here at any moment.
Looking at Amanda, I said, 'It's gonna be a long night.'
Epilogue
The car pulled up to the chicken-wire fence and slowed to a stop. The driver lowered the window and waited for the guard to approach. When he came over, the driver nodded at him, and received nothing in return but a stone stare. One hand on the car's hood, the other on his side, pushing out his hip just enough so the driver could see the semiautomatic strapped to his side.
The driver did not flinch at this. In fact, he'd seen the same man carrying the same gun numerous times. They knew each other by now, and the display was merely a reminder. Not a threat, just a friendly tap on the shoulder to let the driver know it was still there.
After a minute, the guard pressed a button on a remote and the gate began to creak open. When it was wide enough for the car to pass through, the driver sped off, gravel spewing out from under the tires.
The gravel soon turned into a dirt road, surrounded on either side by fencing, and topped by razor wire.
Several trees stood on either side of the fence, numerous branches caught in the wire. If removed, the wood would be shredded instantaneously.
The road went on about two miles before widening into a small field. Standing in the middle of the field was a brown warehouse, two stories high and surrounded on either side by trees and, beyond that, more razorwire-topped fencing. Three cars sat in the entrance in front of the warehouse, half a dozen large men trolling about. And unlike the guard out front, these men weren't shy about hiding their guns.
The driver pulled up behind the last car. Like moths to a flame, all six men walked toward this new arrival.
The driver shifted into Park, turned the car off and stepped outside.
The six armed men nodded to him. He returned the gesture. One of them, a tall, lean Caucasian man with white hair and a chiseled face, strode up to the driver's side. He'd heard rumors that this white-haired man had been on the ground in Panama in December 1989, as a member of the Green Berets. The driver didn't quite know how he'd ended up here, but he had one hell of a hunch.
'Malloy,' the driver said to the man.
'Detective,' Malloy said back.
Malloy led the driver up to the warehouse's entrance.
He went up to a small control panel that appeared rusted and bent. He inserted a small key into the side of the panel. A tinny whirring noise emanated from the box, and the panel receded, revealing a keypad and an elec tronic monitor.
Malloy pressed both of his thumbs on the pad. A green light flickered on. Malloy then entered a ten-digit code on the pad. When that was complete, he opened the door and ushered the driver inside.
Inside the warehouse was a corridor that led to two doors. The driver had seen this part of the warehouse many times, but had never entered the door to his left.
He knew what went on behind it, but had not witnessed it with his own eyes. Better he didn't. Better it stayed in his mind as long as possible.
Malloy led the driver to the door on the right side.
He opened it, led the driver up a flight of stairs. At the top floor, Malloy inserted a key card into a slot on a metal door. The driver could hear a mechanism unlock, and the door swung open.
The driver entered. He turned back to watch the door close. Malloy stood on the other side. He would wait for the driver. He always did.
The driver turned back around. He was in a room about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide, with high ceilings. Track lighting adorned the ceiling, casting white beams that harshly illuminated the room.
At the far end of the room was a small desk. It was uncluttered, save for a reading lamp, a desk blotter and assorted pens and pencils. Behind the desk was a woman of about forty-five. She was of Latin descent, dark skin and green eyes, silky black hair that flowed down to the small of her back. She wore a sleeveless black top. Each arm was muscular, solid, lithe. Though the woman's face was beginning to show lines of age, her body tone and the quickness of her gestures were those of a woman half her age.
She watched him approach with a serenity on her face, no sense of strife or impatience. He had only met her twice before, but each time felt unnerved, like there was something roiling beneath that calm exterior, something that if unleashed could tear him apart. Because of that he never got closer than a few feet. Though they'd met twice, he'd heard stories. The kind of stories that, even if embellished (which over time they surely were), must have had a ring of truth somewhere. He was taking enough risks as it was. He wanted no part of anything else, any part of the minimum ten men who were cur rently in the ground because of her.
The woman looked up as the driver approached. She stood up and said, 'Detective Makhoulian. It's been far, far too long. Please, sit down.' She gestured for him to sit at the table. There was a smile on her face that made him feel queasy.
He nodded, approached and took a seat, making sure to subtly push the chair back so it was not within reach.
He said, 'With all due respect, I prefer it that way. If
I'm here it means there's a problem.'
'Well, that really depends,' the woman said. 'If I know all I need to know, then there is no problem. The boys. Callahan and Evans, they're both dead, correct?'
'That's right.'
'Then this murder of Stephen Gaines ends with them. I'm led to believe there are no further investiga tions into the deaths of any of those three men.'
'As of right now, no. The department officially declared Evans's death a clean shoot. He had a gun, and there are numerous witnesses who concur that he killed
Callahan in cold blood. The newspapers are playing it as a heroic cop putting himself in harm's way. The families would be stupid to press charges. Their children have already dragged their names through the mud, and any protesting on their part would only deepen the wounds. My guess is the families will mourn quietly and be out of the city within the year.'
'That would make my holiday,' the woman said.
'Now, you mentioned the newspapers. This reporter who was on the scene. Parker. I don't like his reputa tion, and he is one of your 'numerous witnesses.' The last thing we need is for him to suddenly think he saw something he didn't see. Do you think he will be a problem?'
