In the Company of Liars (15 page)

J
ane McCoy walks into Special Agent-in-Charge Irving Shiels's office. “Sir?”

Shiels is behind his desk, a number of files open before him. He gestures to her to close the door, which she does, her heartbeat escalating.

“I see you got confirmation on Doctor Lomas's debt.”

“Yes, sir.” But she assumes this is not the reason for her visit. Her little field trip yesterday only confirmed what they already knew about Doctor Neil Lomas.

Shiels takes a breath. “Agent, I just got a call. Muhsin al-Bakhari is making plans to go to Sudan in June. First of June, we're hearing.”

“Yes, sir,” she says evenly, before the breath leaves her.

Muhsin al-Bakhari.
They could not have hoped for anyone better.

“Haroon just booked a flight to Paris for the first of June,” he adds.

“So Haroon's going to connect from Paris to Sudan,” she gathers.

Shiels nods. “He'll do it when he gets there. He wouldn't be dumb enough to book that flight now. I figure, he'll land on June first. Spend a night in Paris. Book a flight for the third.”

Shiels knows whereof he speaks, having worked in the Middle East for years with the CIA. He knows how the Liberation Front operates, as well as anyone
can
know.

The gravity of what McCoy has heard settles upon her. On both of them. Unbeknownst to him, Ramadaran Ali Haroon is going to lead the United States to the Liberation Front's operations commander, its number-two guy, Muhsin al-Bakhari. The brains behind the entire operation.

“When Haroon gets to the airport here,” says Shiels, “he's going to be flagged. They'll call us.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“You have to be the one who answers that call, Agent McCoy. You have to be sure he gets on that flight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Work him over. Basic questioning. Quiz him.”

“Understood, sir. I'll be on the call that day.”

“Good.” He nods at McCoy. “That's all, Agent.” He turns to a file on his desk, then looks up again at his subordinate, who has not moved. “Something else, McCoy?”

“Only—” McCoy clears her throat. “I was only thinking, sir, that there might be some casualties. Some innocents.”

“Lose a few to save a lot.” Shiels sighs. “I don't have a better answer than that.”

And McCoy didn't expect a better answer. She knows the rules. Anyone playing with fire—whatever team they're playing on—knows the risks. Ram Haroon. Allison Pagone. Sam Dillon. Mat Pagone. Not to mention—

“Needless to say,” says Shiels, “let's get this right.”

I
t's a small high-rise on the West Side. Ten units, five on each side of the skinny, dilapidated building. McCoy has spent more than her share of time on this side of the city; she worked in controlled substances when she started out with the Bureau. Tough gig. She hated it, especially taking the users into custody. You typically busted the users to get to the dealers, but that didn't mean the addicts walked. It was preferable, no doubt, to take them in and try to rehabilitate them, but she could never shake the unease of putting cuffs on people who were in the grip of addiction.

And now she's back. Back on the grimy sidewalks, back by the small-loan shops, the convenience stores advertising phone cards and cigarettes on the metal fencing that covers their windows, the broken-down automobiles lining the curbs. She sees too many youths running around for a school day. The streets are pocked with deep potholes, the traffic signs are painted with graffiti. A car alarm is going off the
next street over. She hears two women yelling at each other in a low-rise above her, through a closed window.

So many problems, it's suffocating to even consider where to begin.

“I'm going,” McCoy says, turning her face toward the collar of her leather jacket. She doesn't work undercover, but this is hardly a stretch for her—jeans and a baseball cap—and she wants to have the conversation personally. She's not as out-of-place on this particular block; many parts of the West Side, contrary to popular opinion, are racially heterogeneous. The whites around these parts are heavily ethnic, first-generation Eastern Europeans, mostly, along with Koreans, Latinos, and African Americans. So she doesn't fit in precisely, but she's not off by much.

McCoy takes the length of the street, then turns at the crosswalk and moves to the east side of the avenue. An Asian grocer is sweeping the sidewalk outside his place. A young, very pregnant woman in a wool cap is waddling toward her.

McCoy blows a bubble with her gum. The heels are a bit uncomfortable but it fits the scene, so she works it as best she can. She gets the attention of one boy, an African American kid sitting on a stoop, playing with a deck of cards that rests on the step below him. It's not much of an ego boost; the kid looks about thirteen.

Still, she winks at him for a response.

“Lookin' good, my woman,” he says in a squeaky, preadolescent voice.

Good. She has just about passed him and continues on a step or two, before turning back and facing the boy. “Hey, handsome,” she says, working the gum some more. A little flirtation does wonders on a kid this age. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

“Oh, man,” he squeaks. He lifts the deck of cards, then proceeds to drop three of them on the step between his feet. He shows her one card—the three of clubs—and starts
shuffling the three cards around with rather amazing speed and agility. “Tell me where it lands, pretty lady.”

McCoy chuckles for his benefit and takes the opportunity, while he works his trick, to inventory the boy. A flashy Starter jacket with hood, gloves sticking out of his pockets, leather high-tops, an open cigar box by his feet that holds a few dollars and some change. He's keeping a little in the box—singles and a few quarters—to make the game look low-stakes. The rest is probably in his sock, but that's of no concern to her.

Of concern to her is the gym bag to his immediate right.

The boy stops, shows his palms, and looks up at McCoy triumphantly. The three cards are lined up next to each other between his feet. There is no money involved here. He's just showing off.

She leans into him. “What's your name, kid?”

The boy smiles at her, showing thick gums, white teeth. “Jackson,” he says. “Tell me which card's the three of clubs, pretty lady.”

McCoy leans in, still closer. “I don't gamble, Jackson,” she says quietly, evenly, no longer smiling. “I'm an FBI agent. You're not in any trouble,” she adds, raising her hand preemptively, as she sees the boy begin to adjust his position, angling himself to the right. “But you will be if you reach for that bag.”

McCoy gestures over her shoulder. “See that guy turning the corner right now? Two o'clock.”

The boy looks over, undoubtedly seeing Harrick emerging from around the corner.

“He's my partner. If he sees you try to signal Jimmy in any way, we'll lock you up.”

The reference to Jimmy, she figures, is as meaningful to the boy as her threats. She is telling him that she already knows what is going on upstairs.

“Put your hands on your face, Jackson,” McCoy says. “Do it now.”

The boy complies eventually, slapping a hand on each cheek. He doesn't seem particularly worried. Closer to sulking.

McCoy takes his gym bag and opens it. She doesn't find a weapon and didn't expect to. She lifts a hand-held radio out of his bag and puts it in her jacket pocket. “What's he paying you, out of curiosity?”

“Twenty bucks a pop.”

“What's a pop? Half a day?”

“Seven to one, lady. Damn.” The boy shakes his head. He has just lost one of his day jobs. The other one, which apparently starts at one, involves the card hustle, but not here. Jackson probably hits the train station, the bus terminal, somewhere downtown where the white folks don't so much mind being hustled by such a cute little guy.

“I'm taking the radio with me, Jackson. But all the same, keep those hands on those cute cheeks of yours. Don't make a move now, okay? My partner has a short fuse.”

“I ain't movin', lady,” he answers in his disappointed voice.

McCoy pats Jackson's shoulder and moves up the stairs. She uses a key that was copied from an upstairs neighbor, last week. Harrick followed the woman to the store, showed her his credentials, and persuaded her to let him make a copy.

McCoy speaks into her collar. “Am I clean?”

“Clean,” Harrick's voice crackles back in her earpiece. What he means is that Jimmy, upstairs, has not looked out his window, down at McCoy talking to the boy, nor has Jackson made any attempt to signal his boss from the stoop.

Once inside, McCoy removes her heels, takes one of the two flights of stairs and stops on the landing. She tosses her leather jacket, leaving a pajama top—nothing frilly, just a light-blue top. She takes off her cap and musses her hair.

“I'm going black,” she says, removing the earpiece.

She takes the next flight of stairs and walks up to the door. There is loud music coming from the apartment, as they had been told. But it's not as loud as she had been led to believe, and she realizes she should have considered the source, an eighty-one-year-old woman.

Still, it's her excuse, so she'll use it.

She bangs on the door and shouts. “Hey!” She gets no response so she tries again, slamming the door hard, getting a good feel for its sturdiness. It's thin, cheap wood, which is no surprise, but there's at least a chain lock, also predictable. She hopes like hell she will not have to break down a closed door.

“You wanna turn that music down?” she shouts.

The voice comes from inside the apartment. “What's your problem?”

“My problem is you, jerk-off!”

She hears him moving inside, toward the door, possibly approaching the peephole.

She takes a step back before he gets too close.

“Take a pill, sweetheart,” the voice says through the door.

“It's eight-thirty in the morning!” she hollers, watching the door.

“Christ, lady—”

McCoy lets her weight transfer to her toes. She sees the door crack open and comes forward with full force, before the keychain has even stretched taut against the space, while the man is still in the midst of positioning his weight backward to open the door. That's the key. It would probably take her several attempts to get through this door if it were shut, assuming she could do it at all. It's all about surprise and balance.

She leads with her shoulder. She wants to keep her feet but it's been a while, and anyway, this guy will be on his back, too. She hits the door and feels a pop in her shoulder, nothing permanent, but something she'll remember for a
while. Something this guy, Jimmy, will remember for a while, too.

The chain lock pops from the force. McCoy manages her balance as she stumbles on the hardwood floor of the apartment. Jimmy is on the floor behind the door.

“I'm a federal agent,” she says quickly, lest Jimmy get any ideas. Under these circumstances, this might be good news for Jimmy. But she will take no chances. She removes her weapon, tucked in the back of her jeans, her credentials quickly following, a badge on a leather base. She kicks the door shut and keeps the weapon trained on Jimmy, before he even knows what has happened.

Jimmy is mid-thirties, with stringy blond hair and darker facial hair. Why do these idiots think goatees look good?

“FBI,” she says. She motions with her weapon. “Get up. Sit down on that disgusting couch.” McCoy backs up and kicks at the stereo until it shuts up. “Sit, Jimmy. Sit. This might work out okay for you.”

“Don't know what you're talking about,” Jimmy answers, making his way to the couch and falling on it.

McCoy gives him a crosswise look, lets her eyes move about the room. There are betting slips in piles on a desk, next to a ledger with numbers in three vertical columns—one for the bettor, one for the game, one for the amount, all in code. Four—no, five different cell phones—ghost phones, stealing signals from legitimate phones, making them untraceable. A bowl of Cheerios, half-finished, sits on the desk as well. “This wouldn't be your first offense,” she says, deliberate in her choice of the conditional tense. “You probably know the sentencing guidelines better than I do.”

“This ain't right.”

“That's what you get for chincing on your sentries, Jimmy. A ten-year-old kid?”

Jimmy's jaw clenches. He's probably got some ideas about that kid in his head.

“Wasn't his fault,” she says. “We've been watching you. It wouldn't have mattered.”

“What the hell is this?” Jimmy asks.

A fair enough question. A federal agent, dressed in a pajama top and jeans, comes in solo and doesn't seem all that interested in busting his chops. McCoy felt she had no choice. She wants to involve as few people as possible in this operation. And okay, maybe she wanted a little physical exercise.

“I have a couple of questions for you, Jimmy. If you answer them, I'm gone in thirty seconds. If you lie, we're not friends anymore.”

Her new amigo squirms in his seat, folds his arms. “So ask me,” he says.

“Doctor Neil Lomas,” she says. “And if you tell me you don't know him, I'm cleaning up this apartment.”

Jimmy ponders this, and that confirms her suspicion. Giving up the name of one of the people who places bets with him is not asking too much, considering the alternative. But this one is giving him pause.

She wonders what he knows about Doctor Neil Lomas. Does he know why he started gambling? Probably not. Does he have any idea that Doctor Lomas is in the process of producing a deadly drug that will be indistinguishable from baby aspirin?

Definitely not. No, Jimmy's hesitation has nothing to do with Agent McCoy's interest in the doctor.

“I got no business with that guy,” Jimmy says.

Actually, as phrased, Jimmy is probably telling the truth.

“Doctor Lomas was into you for fifteen grand,” she tells him. “You were getting impatient. Stomp your foot twice if I'm wrong.”

“What the fuck.”

“Now, just like that,” McCoy adds, “you're leaving him alone. You haven't sent anyone after him for months. That's because he's all paid up now. Right, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shakes his head.

“Just give me a name,” she says, sensing his obvious reluctance. “I know Doctor Lomas didn't pay you himself.”

Jimmy's mouth parts. He is probably weighing jail time versus incurring the wrath of the person who purchased Doctor Neil Lomas's debt.

Besides, he probably couldn't give McCoy a name.

This guy is scared. She could brace him a lot harder, but she's not particularly interested in spending the entire morning with Jimmy, and she most certainly does not want to haul him in.

She pulls a photograph, folded in half, from her back jeans pocket and shows it to him. She watches his eyes.

Jimmy's eyes go cold as winter, mesmerized, seemingly, by the photograph. He loses what little color he had in his face.

No question. She never really had any doubt.

“Lady,” says Jimmy, “you
definitely
didn't hear me say yes.”

“No, I didn't,” she agrees. He didn't need to say the words. “I was never here, Jimmy, right?” she asks, but she knows that the last thing that Jimmy wants to do is discuss this conversation.

“Fuck
yeah
, you were never here. Keep me outta this shit.”