The Scarecrow (35 page)

It was true. Motorcycles were able to slip through traffic with ease. Most riders seemed to have a general disdain for the concept of marked lanes of travel.

“You want me to pull over and you drive?”

“No, just do the best you can.”

I managed to stay with the box for the next ten minutes through stop-and-go traffic and then we got lucky. The motorcycle cut into a freeway entrance and got up on the 202 heading toward Phoenix. I had no problem keeping pace here. The motorcycle stayed a steady ten miles over the speed limit and I hummed along two lanes over and a hundred yards back. For fifteen minutes we followed him in clear traffic as he transitioned onto I-10 and then North I-17 through the heart of Phoenix.

Rachel began to breathe easier and even leaned back in her seat. She thought we had disguised our tail well enough that she told me to pull up in our lane so she could get a better look at the man on the motorcycle.

“That’s Mizzou,” she said. “I can tell by his clothes.”

I glanced over but couldn’t tell. I had not committed to memory the details of what I had seen in the bunker. Rachel had and that was one of the things that made her so good at what she did.

“If you say so. What do you think he’s doing, anyway?”

I started falling back again to avoid being spotted by Mizzou.

“Taking Freddy his box.”

“I know that. But I mean, why now?”

“Maybe it’s his lunch break or maybe he’s finished work for the day. Could be a lot of reasons.”

Something about that explanation bothered me but I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. The motorcycle started gliding across four lanes of interstate in front of me and heading toward the next exit. I made the same maneuvers and fell in behind him on the exit with a car between us. We caught the light on green and headed west on Thomas Road. Pretty soon we were in a warehouse district where small businesses and art galleries were trying to stake a claim in an area that looked like it had been deserted by manufacturers long ago.

Mizzou stopped in front of a one-story brick building and dismounted. I pulled to the curb a half block away. There was little traffic and few cars were parked in the area. We stood out like, well, cops on an obvious surveillance. But Mizzou never checked his surroundings for a tail. He took off his helmet, confirming Rachel’s identification, and put it over the headlight. He then unhooked the bungee cords and took the box off the bike rack. He carried it toward a large sliding door at the side of the building.

Hanging on a chain was a round free weight like the kind used on barbells. Mizzou grabbed it and pounded it on the door, making a banging sound I could hear a half block away with the windows up. He waited and we waited but nobody came and opened the door. Mizzou pounded again and got the same negative result. He then walked over to a large window that was so dirty there was no need for blinds on the inside. He used his hand to rub away some of the grime and looked in. I couldn’t tell whether he saw anyone or not. He went back to the door and pounded one more time. Then for the hell of it he grabbed the door handle and tried to slide it open. To his surprise and ours, the door easily moved on its rollers. It was unlocked.

Mizzou hesitated and for the first time looked around. His eyes didn’t hold on my car. They quickly returned to the open door. It looked like he called out, and then after a few seconds he went in and slid the door closed behind him.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think we need to get in there,” Rachel said. “Freddy’s obviously not there, and who knows if Mizzou is going to lock that place up or decide to take something of value to the investigation. It’s an uncontrolled situation and we should be in there.”

I dropped the car into gear and drove the remaining half block to the building. Rachel was out and moving toward the sliding door before I had it back in park. I jumped out and followed.

Rachel pulled the door open just enough for us to slip in. It was dark inside and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. When they finally did, I saw Rachel was twenty feet in front of me, walking toward the middle of the warehouse. The place was wide open with steel roof supports going up every twenty feet. Drywall partitions had been erected to divide it into living, working and exercise space. I saw the barbell rack and bench the door knocker had come from. There was also a basketball rim and at least a half court of space in which to play. Farther down was a dresser and an unmade bed. Against one of the partitions was a refrigerator and a table with a microwave, but there was no sink or stove or anything else resembling a kitchen. I saw the box Mizzou had carried on the table next to the microwave but I saw no sign of Mizzou.

I caught up to Rachel as we passed a partition and I saw a workstation set up against the wall. There were three screens on shelves above a desk and a PC underneath it. The keyboard, however, was missing. The shelves were crowded with code books, software boxes and other electronic equipment. But still no sign of Mizzou.

“Where’d he go?” I whispered.

Rachel raised her hand to silence me and walked toward the workstation. She seemed to study the spot where the keyboard should have been.

“He took the keyboard,” she whispered. “He knows what we can—”

She stopped at the sound of a toilet flushing. It came from the far corner of the warehouse and was followed by the sound of another door being slid open. Rachel reached up to one of the shelves and grabbed a cable tie used for bunching computer wires, then grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me around a wall to the sleeping area. We stood, backs against the wall, and waited for Mizzou to pass. I could hear his approaching steps on the concrete floor. Rachel moved past me to the edge of the partition. Just at the moment Mizzou passed the edge, she sprang forward, grabbing him by the wrist and neck and spinning him onto the bed before he knew what was happening. She planted him face-first and hard on the mattress and in one fluid move jumped on his back.

“Don’t move!” she yelled.

“Wait! What is—”

“Stop struggling! I said, don’t move!”

She yanked his hands behind his back and used the cable tie to quickly bind them.

“What is this? What did I do?”

“What are you doing here?”

He tried to look up but Rachel smashed his face back into the mattress.

“I said, what are you doing here?”

“I came to drop off Freddy’s shit and just decided to use the can.”

“Breaking and entering is a felony.”

“I didn’t break in. And I didn’t steal shit. Freddy never minds it. You can ask him.”

“Where is Freddy?”

“I don’t know. Who are you, anyway?”

“Never mind who I am. Who is Freddy?”

“What? He lives here.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. Freddy Stone. I work with him. I mean, I used—Hey, you! You’re that lady that was on the tour today. What are you doing, man?”

Rachel climbed backward off of him, since hiding her identity no longer mattered. Mizzou turned around on the bed and propped himself up. Wide-eyed, he looked from Rachel to me and back to Rachel.

“Where is Freddy?” Rachel demanded.

“I don’t know,” Mizzou said. “Nobody’s seen him.”

“Since when?”

“When do you think? Since he quit. What is going on here? First the FBI and now you two. Who are you, anyway?”

“Don’t worry about it. Where would Freddy go?”

“I don’t know. How would I know?”

Mizzou suddenly stood up as if he were simply going to walk out and ride away with his hands bound behind his back. Rachel roughly slammed him back onto the bed.

“You can’t do this! I don’t even think you’re cops. I want a lawyer.”

Rachel took a threatening step closer to the bed. She spoke in a low, calm voice.

“If we’re not cops, what makes you think we would get you a lawyer?”

Mizzou’s eyes became scared then as he realized he had stumbled into something he might not be able to stumble out of.

“Look,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Just let me go.”

I was still leaning against the partition wall, trying to act like it was just another day at the office and that sometimes people ended up as collateral damage when things were getting done.

“Where can I find Freddy?” Rachel asked.

“I told you!” Mizzou yelped. “I don’t know. I would tell you if I knew but I don’t know!”

“Is Freddy a hacker?”

She gestured toward the wall. The workstation was on the other side.

“More like a troller. He likes fucking with people, doin’ pranks and shit.”

“What about you? Did you do some of that with him? Don’t lie.”

“One time. But I didn’t like it, messing people up for no good reason.”

“What’s your name?”

“Matthew Mardsen.”

“Okay, Matthew Mardsen, what about Declan McGinnis?”

“What about him?”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I heard he e-mailed that he was home sick.”

“Do you believe that?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Did anybody talk to him?”

“I don’t know. That kind of stuff is above my pay grade.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s all I know!”

“Then, stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up and turn around.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I said, stand up and turn around. Never mind what I’m going to do.”

He reluctantly did what he was told. If he could have turned his head a hundred eighty degrees to keep his eyes on Rachel, he would have. As it was, he must have been close to one twenty.

“I told you everything I know,” he offered desperately.

Rachel came up close behind him and spoke directly into his ear.

“If I find out differently, I’m going to come back for you,” she said. Holding him by the cable tie she pulled him around the wall into the workstation. She took a pair of scissors off the shelf and cut the binding from his wrists.

“Get out of here and don’t tell anybody what happened,” she said. “If you do, we’ll know.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

“Go!”

He almost slipped on the polished concrete when he turned to head toward the door. It was a long walk and his pride deserted him when he was ten feet from freedom. He ran those final steps, slid the door open and slammed it home behind him. Within five seconds we heard the motorcycle kick to life.

“I liked that move, throwing him down on the bed like that,” I said. “I think I’ve seen that before.”

Rachel offered a very thin smile in return and then got down to business.

“I don’t know if he’s going to go running to the cops or not, but let’s not take too much more time here.”

“Let’s get the hell out now.”

“No, not yet. Look around, see what you can find out about this guy. Ten minutes and then we’re out of here. Don’t leave your fingerprints.”

“Great. How do I do that?”

“You’re a newspaper reporter. You have your trusty pen?”

“Sure.”

“Use that. Ten minutes.”

But we didn’t need ten minutes. It quickly became clear that the place had been stripped of anything remotely personal about Freddy Stone. Using my pen to open cabinets and drawers, I found them empty or containing only generic kitchen tools and food packages. The refrigerator was almost empty. The freezer contained a couple of frozen pizzas and an empty ice tray. I checked in and under the dresser. Empty. I looked under the bed and between the mattress and box spring. There was nothing. Even the trash cans were empty.

“Let’s go,” Rachel said.

I looked up from checking under the bed and saw she was already to the door. Under her arm she was carrying the box that Mizzou had just dropped off. I remembered seeing the flash drives in there. Maybe the drives would hold information we needed. I hurried after her, but when I went through the open door, she was not at the car. I turned and caught a glimpse of her rounding the corner of the building and entering the alley.

“Hey!”

I trotted over to the alley and made the turn. She was walking with purpose down the center of the alley.

“Rachel, where are you going?”

“There were three trash cans in there,” she called back over her shoulder. “All of them were empty.”

It was then that I realized she was heading toward the first of two industrial-size Dumpsters that were pushed into alcoves on opposite sides of the alley. Just as I caught up with her she handed me Freddy Stone’s box.

“Hold this.”

She flung the heavy steel lid up and it banged loudly against the wall behind it. I glanced down into Freddy’s box and saw that somebody, probably Mizzou, had taken his cigarettes. I doubted he would miss them.

“You checked the kitchen cabinets, right?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah.”

“Were there any trash can liners?”

It took me a moment to understand.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, a box under the sink.”

“Black or white?”

“Uh…”

I closed my eyes to try to visualize what I had seen in the cabinet under the sink.

“… black. Black with the red drawstring.”

“Good. That narrows it down.”

She was reaching into the Dumpster, moving things around. It was half full and smelled awful. Most of the detritus was not in bags but had been dumped in directly from waste containers. Most of it was construction debris from a repair or renovation project. The rest was rotting garbage.

“Let’s try the other.”

We crossed the alley to the other alcove. I put the box down on the ground and threw open the heavy lid of the Dumpster. The odor was even more stunning and at first I thought we had found Freddy Stone. I stepped back and turned away, blowing air through my mouth and nose to keep the stench away.

“Don’t worry, it’s not him,” Rachel said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what a rotting body smells like, and it’s worse.”

I moved back to the Dumpster. There were several plastic trash bags in this container, many of them black and many of them torn and spilling putrid garbage.

“Your arms are longer,” Rachel said. “Pull out the black bags.”