The CleanSweep Conspiracy (33 page)

CHAPTER 42

Arresting Developments

F
riday morning rush hour was usually a crunch of traffic that clogged freeways and the major roads leading into the metropolis. On that Friday, however, an eerie quiet gripped the city, and the roads were stripped of cars. Television, radio, newspaper, and mass Internet mailings, combined with cars equipped with loudspeakers, all broadcast a single message: stay home unless it was an emergency.

Carl squinted at the sunlight as they entered the city from the west. “Damn few pedestrians on the sidewalks,” he said. “If it weren’t for the military or police, there wouldn’t be any vehicles on the road at all.”

He truly didn’t know what to expect when they pulled up to the first checkpoint.

“It’s them!” a woman shouted.

She was wearing a camouflage uniform and she waved over a squad of soldiers. They started cheering as other soldiers, posted at intersections, stoically clutched weapons at the ready. As the hint of light to the east grew into a dawning day, and anyone out and about was treated to the sight of a massive military and police presence. Military scout cars
—
usually only seen on television in war footage
—
were parked along curbs. Troops were stationed at all major intersections and other strategic points.

A man in a police uniform ran to the car and peered in. “That’s Carling!” he said as he reached through the open window to slap the detective on the shoulder.

Their surprise was complete for the foursome when they were assigned a police escort. Soon they were speeding through the streets, the escort car flashing its rotating blue lights to guide them.

Passing CleanSweep headquarters, they saw men in military uniforms surrounding the building.

“That was fast,” Matt said in a whisper, as if he were still afraid to speak his thoughts out loud. They were waved right through the next checkpoint. “It helps to have a police escort, eh?”

“We need to get to work, Carl
—
tired or not.” Susan tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Pull over here.”

He pointed and honked to signal to the escort. Then he slowed until the escort car braked and eased up alongside them.

“Do you think you’re good from here?” the escort driver yelled back.

Carl gave him a thumbs
-
up.

“Good luck.” The window of the escort car went up, and the car drove off.

Carl pulled over to the curb. The others watched as he walked back to the trunk. He retrieved a case, placed it on the hood of the car, and pulled out a camera.

“A gift. The guys in Kitchener gave me this,” he told them. “Let’s get to work, Susan.”

“So, you’re the boss now?” she asked, laughing. But Carl was already pointing the lens, looking for a shot.

He held a radio tucked under his chin, pushed a button, and began a slow pan to the right as he spoke into the microphone. “I’m sending B
-
roll now. I’m live.”

Susan faced the camera and walked down the sidewalk as Carl kept pace, the camera covering her while she talked. The two were soon far enough away that Matt lost the sound of her voice.

Carling took the wheel. “What do these guys want?”

He held up his police badge when two men with stern looks and camouflage uniforms suddenly walked up to the car. The taller one leaned in to examine his identification, but his stern
-
looking expression turned to a grin when he realized who they were. He walked away.

Carling turned to Matt. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

“I can’t face going home,” Matt said. “Not yet. We’ve been driving all night, and now it’s after two in the afternoon. I think a drink is in order.”

“The Ten
-
Eight it is,” Carling said. He saw the blank look on Matt’s face. “Copspeak. It’s the radio code for ‘officer on duty.’ We don’t use ‘ten’ codes anymore, but a retired beat cop opened the bar and called it Ten
-
Eight. Cops appreciate the irony. Guess who drinks there?” He started to laugh.

“The barkeep almost lost his business after the riots, but there are still a bunch of us old
-
timey cops who will be there. I’ll vouch for you,” he said, and he laughed harder.

Walking into the bar, Matt looked around. It was packed with men and women in police uniforms, with undercover officers in civilian dress mixed in. Matt and Carling stood in the doorway, silhouetted by strong sunlight. They appeared as dark shadows until they stepped in and closed the door. Everyone in the bar stopped talking. It was their custom to freeze out any unwelcome visitors.

“Carling, you old degenerate!” Scotty yelled from the back of the room.

A wave of recognition swept through the bar, followed by cheering. It was long, loud, and heartfelt
—
until Carling held up his hand.

“Enough!” he tried to yell. But his protest only made the others cheer even louder.

Matt watched Carling’s face slowly blossom into a dark red, then purple.

“Hey, Carling!” someone shouted. “Who’s that with you? You brought a civilian to the Ten
-
Eight?”

It was Matt’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he felt like turning to leave. In fact, he started to do just that.

Carling stopped him. “This,” he yelled over the noise, “is the freaking blogger that started it all!” He held up Matt’s arm. “Matt Tremain, the guy we were all supposed to be chasing. He’s my guest, and I expect him to get the same respect you give me.” He ducked as napkins and straws started being hurled at them.

“That means he picks up the next round,” a woman yelled, and everyone laughed.

Carling looked over at the barkeep. “I thought you were out of stock.”

“Look around,” the man answered back. “They all brought in cases of beer to donate to the cause. Some brought liquor, and Sarah even brought a bottle of white wine
—
which, by the way, is still unopened.”

That announcement was met with jeers and booing.

A radio monitor blared out an announcement, and everyone was quiet.

“Until the TV people are back to broadcasting from the main studio, we’re following everything on the radio,” another woman said over her shoulder to Matt and Carling.

“But look
—
they’re back on the air now!” someone said as the television set came on, displaying a stock photo of Overstreet.

The volume was turned up to its loudest, and everyone yelled for the barkeep to turn it down.

“The police caught Winston Overstreet packing a suitcase. He never made it to his car.” That was met with a chorus of booing and hissing.

The screen showed a scene from Winston’s upscale condominium; it was like something out of a television cop show. The camera panned to the right as two military trucks pulled under the porte cochere at a high rate of speed and braked to a sudden stop. Men and women in uniform jumped out and adopted combat stances, holding weapons at the ready. Men in suits poured out of a black SUV parked behind them. The one obviously in charge started issuing orders, and the uniforms dispersed to their posts. It was all being covered live by Action 21 News, with Susan Payne providing the voice
-
over.

Matt and Carling looked at each other, knowing who was aiming the camera.

On the television screen, they watched the building’s concierge jumping around as if she were barefoot and stepping on hot coals. Trying to speak, she was overwhelmed by the uniformed presence
—
clearly she had no clue about what was unfolding.

“Hand me the master entry card, now!” a deep voice boomed.

She was trembling as she complied. “It’s the master
—
key card,” she barely got the words out before the man grabbed it from her and raced to the elevator. “The Overstreet suite is on the third floor,” he said, ordering people in uniforms right and left through each stairwell.

An over
-
the
-
shoulder camera shot followed the team leader, who nodded as the door to Overstreet’s unit was smashed in. Everyone rushed inside to find the occupant leaning over a suitcase. Susan Payne’s voice could be heard, and Carl got a great camera angle
—
his money shot. Everyone in the bar watched Overstreet straighten, then turn to face the onslaught. He had a resigned look on his face, and he slowly raised his hands to show he wasn’t armed.

As they left the building, the concierge had held up her smartphone to take her own souvenir video
—
she had apparently recovered from her earlier shock. It was destined to become one of the iconic photographs of the day, the high
-
and
-
mighty, secretive billionaire Winston Overstreet being escorted through the overdecorated lobby of his condominium building at gunpoint.

• • •

With
the skyline of Miami fading behind them, Spencer stood alongside the captain, urging more speed for his yacht,
Mockyachta
. Spreading his feet farther apart to steady himself, he grabbed a handrail to counteract the pitching motion of the ship.

“Hurry, damn it! Don’t stop.”

The captain started to put his hand on the speed control panel. “It’s no use
—
we have to stop. It’s the coast guard.”

“You stop when I tell you to stop,” Spencer said, reaching to push the captain’s hand away from the throttle. Then he ran to the starboard side door and looked up at the red
-
orange plane with a stripe, a twin
-
engine turboprop CN
-
235 maritime
-
patrol aircraft. It was circling overhead, just above stalling speed. Spencer shook his fist at the plane and felt
Mockyachta
slowing in the water. The yacht came to a stop, and rolling swells caused the boat to pitch even more.

Evans, his head of security, rushed up the ladder leading to the control room. Spencer barked an order, and Evans pulled out a pistol, held it to the captain’s head, and ordered the ship ahead at full speed.

“You’re both crazy,” the captain said, but did as he was ordered.

The copilot of the plane overhead looked down, saw the growing wake, and radioed back that the vessel hadn’t stopped. “They’re getting underway again.”

The ship’s captain increased the speed, but he carefully adjusted the controls for three
-
quarter power
—
a move that went unnoticed by Spencer and Evans. He made another unseen adjustment, and the boat slowed even more, but still not enough to capture the attention of his bosses. The captain was no fool. Seeing the specks on the horizon, he knew the coast guard or navy was sending fast ships to intercept them. He also turned the wheel a bit at a time, until
Mockyachta
was heading directly toward its pursuers.

When Spencer saw them and realized what his captain had done, he yelled in a panic, “Idiot! Turn this thing around
—
now!”

A loud boom sounded
—
a warning shot across the bow. That put an end to the pursuit.

The captain said, “I’m not dying for this,” and turned off the power.

Evans holstered his weapon as Spencer stood, looking out the wheelhouse window at the approaching coast guard cutter. He was actually looking far beyond the horizon, and picturing his prison cell.

• • •

“Sir” Richard Waverly was sleeping soundly when the tidal wave of news swept across the country. Against the advice of his doctor, Waverly had taken three doses of his prescribed sleeping pills, instead of just one. He knew his doctor would be furious if he found out, but Waverly needed sleep.

Earlier, his wife had seen him clutch his chest as he watched Susan Payne report the arrest of Winston Overstreet. He threw the remote against the wall, shards of plastic scattering across the plush carpeting.

“Damn bitch!” he’d said, and struggled for breath.

His wife was sure he was having a heart attack and wanted to call 911.

“It’s too late for that. It would be merciful if this were a heart attack. Call our lawyer,” he said and stormed out of the room.

He gulped down the sleep aids with mouthfuls of water and was soon snoring away in a medicated sleep.

“You can’t go in there.” He barely heard his wife’s voice through his medicated haze. “He’s an important man. He has the ear of prominent
—
”

“Shut up, lady.”

The sound of splintering wood dimly registered. Richard was trying to figure out what that meant when he felt himself being picked up by rough hands. He was dragged more than carried
—
without ceremony
—
to a waiting van. Richard Waverly wondered vaguely why his wrists were restrained. He hadn’t taken enough of an overdose for it to be fatal, but it was sufficient to grant him a feeling of peace as he was being arrested.

That all changed later that morning, when the pills wore off and he heard the charges against him being read by a stone
-
faced prosecutor.

• • •

Charles Claussen sat in his office
—
no longer the bridge or command central
—
his flagship empire crashing around him. Realizing he was well past the point of picking up the phone and just ordering this all to go away, he looked up at Angela Vaughn.

“I told you this would happen if you didn’t
…
”

There was no reason to finish the sentence. It would have been an exercise in futility, and they both knew it. There was nothing Angela could say as she looked past her boss to gaze out over the lake, knowing it was the last time she would see it for a long time. She fingered the police badge in her pocket. She may have resigned from the force, but it was still a touchstone, reminding her of her oath. Now it was an accusatory reminder to herself of how far she had fallen from grace. She hated to apologize, and decided this wasn’t a good time to start.

They both turned to face the door when they heard the sirens on the street below.