The Silent Places (4 page)

The third seller was a lady in her early thirties with two kids. She was offering her ex-husband’s car, a 2004 Mercury Marauder. She said she had full title and handed him the keys and told him he could take a test drive. Then she went back in her house, holding a cell phone to her ear. She’d hardly given Reese a glance.

Reese drove the car around the block. He liked it.

He returned to the woman’s house and asked her to show him the title. There were no liens. She owned it outright. Reese asked her how much she wanted. She said the Blue Book value was eighteen, but she would take sixteen five. Reese said, “Okay.” And he counted out that sum in hundreds, laying it on her kitchen table. Then he asked her if she could deliver it to him at the Madison Safeway that afternoon. She said she could.

That evening, Reese made room in his garage for the Mercury. He backed the Mercury into the garage. Then he spent the next few hours creating a false bottom in the trunk. He examined his work when he was finished.

To the inexperienced eye, it would appear normal. A trained drug dog would be able to sniff narcotics if they were placed in the secret compartment. But Reese had not made the compartment to store narcotics.

Reese left the car alone, telling himself he would check the spot welds the next day.

He went into the house and made a pot of coffee. He drank the coffee with sandwiches he had bought at a deli. While he ate, he read the Indianapolis newspaper. He read all the stories about the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. At times, he shook his head, wondering when the clowns had taken over.

Reese had been an agent for the CIA when the CIA was run by the current president’s father. Like most people in the intelligence community, Reese thought the father had some sense. The father was not an ideologue. Like Eisenhower, Bush senior would look at all the options presented to him and carefully consider the possible consequences of each. Then he would choose the alternative that offered the maximum chance of success with the minimum chance of disaster. This was standard intelligence procedure. It wasn’t especially pretty and it required a certain dispassionate worldview. But it was realistic and, more importantly, it worked. There was nuance back then, as there always should be in intelligence work. But Bush the Younger proudly proclaimed he didn’t do nuance.

Reese finished his dinner and put the dishes in the sink. Then he set about dyeing his hair.

He finished the job around ten o’clock. He rearranged his now-dark hair, cutting bits here and there. Then he put on some clear eyeglasses. The same man he was before, with the same build. The same, but different. The change was effective. He looked like Paul Bryan now.

Ronnie Wulf, the chief of detectives, had asked Hastings if he would have a cup of coffee with him, and Hastings would later tell himself he should have seen it coming then. Hastings had butted heads with Wulf on a serial-killer investigation once. But whatever tension had been between them was resolved at the end when Wulf took measures to protect Hastings from the chief of police, who had not been happy with the way things went down. They were not close friends, but Hastings thought Ronnie Wulf was basically all right.

Now they sat in the small snacking area in the basement of the police department.

“George,” Wulf said, “the chief wants you and your team to take an assignment.”

Hastings said, “Regarding homicide?”

“No. Not exactly.”

Hastings said nothing. Waited for the man to add something.

Ronnie Wulf said, “Senator Preston. Alan Preston. You know who that is, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

Senator Alan Preston, Republican-Missouri. He had been elected to the U.S. Senate eight years earlier. He had had only token opposition in his reelection campaign. Hastings had voted for him the first time, against him the second time.

Wulf said, “Years ago, before he was a senator, he was an assistant U.S. attorney in Washington. He prosecuted an ex–CIA agent for selling arms to Syria. The agent, this ex-agent, his name was John Reese. A very bad guy. Betrayed his country, probably had agents killed. Agents who were working for the United States. Preston tried the case against him and got him sentenced to prison for life. At sentencing, the judge told Reese that if he could have, he would have sentenced him to death.”

Hastings said, “For murder?”

“No. Apparently, they never actually charged him with murder. What they got him on was the arms-selling thing. Treason.”

“So he got a life sentence?”

“Yeah. But, two days ago, he escaped. From a maximum-security federal holding center in North Dakota.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t told. I don’t know if the chief was, either. He assaulted a private security guard, put him in the hospital. No one’s seen him since. The guy’s some sort of Rambo or something. He was an army Ranger, then a CIA agent, and then an ex–CIA agent, if that makes any sense to you.”

“How did he escape?”

“I asked that, too, and was told I didn’t need to know.”

“Okay. What’s it got to do with us?”

“Well, apparently, sometime before his trial, this Reese told someone in jail that he was going to have Preston killed.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Twelve, thirteen years ago.”

“And the senator thinks he’s going to come after him now?”

“The senator’s concerned. I’ll put it that way. He’s got a wife and a daughter. The daughter’s a college student.”

Hastings didn’t like where this was tracking. He said, “But there’s no homicide now. What does this have to do with me or the guys on my squad?”

“The chief wants you to guard the senator. You and your guys. Sort of a stakeout.”

Hastings sighed. “But that’s not detective work. We’re homicide.”

“I know you’re homicide. George, this is not shit duty.”

“Baby-sitting a senator who may or may not have a vengeful convict after him? Sounds like shit duty to me.”

“Maybe so. But this is coming from the chief.”

Hastings studied Ronnie Wulf for a moment. Then he said, “The chief or the deputy chief?”

“Goddammit, George, this is not punishment.”

“Ronnie, I’ve known you for years. Be straight with me.”

“I am.”

“Are you going to tell me this has nothing to do with Howard Rhodes or what I said to Deputy Chief Murray?”

“No, I’m not going to tell you that.” Wulf leaned closer. “No, I won’t tell you that. And now I’m speaking for myself: George, you cannot talk to the deputy chief that way and not expect any recrimination. Christ,
I
don’t get away with speaking to Murray that way.”

“Well, what would you have done? The DA fucked up and
lied
about it and they were trying to lay it off on Rhodes. Christ, they were trying to get him fired. I couldn’t sit back and watch that. I couldn’t believe Murray was going to go along with it.”

“Well…” Wulf was not going to say what he thought about that. He eventually said, “I understand that. And to an extent, I admire you for it. But you accused them of being racists.”

“I did not do that.”

“Yes, you did, George. You said they were picking on Howard because he’s black.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hastings said. Though he more or less had, and he knew it. He said, “And I … sort of backed down onit.”

“Yeah, well you also sort of refused to retract it. Right?”

“Sort of.”

“Yeah, sort of. But let’s be honest, George. You got pissed off and you just didn’t want to back down to Fenton.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah it is.”

“Well, what do you think I should have done?”

“Never mind what I think. It doesn’t matter what I think. Look, George, you say something like that in a city like this, you better be able to back it up.
Especially
if you’re saying it to Murray. He’s sensitive about that shit. There are black cops at the PD who already think Fenton’s a sellout.
You don’t say that to him
. ”

“I was talking about the DA’s office, not Murray.”

“But that’s not how he sees it.” Wulf said, “At the beginning of this, it was just about Howard and the district attorney’s office. Now it’s about you and Murray. Do you see what you’ve done? He drew a line and you crossed it. You insulted him. Now, George, you did. In your oh-so-subtle way, you called him a chickenshit. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“They were going to discipline Howard.”

“Be that as it may, George, you fucked up. You want to get your twenty in and draw your pension, you don’t pick fights with the brass. That’s the way it is.”

“You on their side?”

“Don’t say that shit to me. I don’t need it. Listen to me. Fenton Murray is not the shitbird you may think he is. He’s got flaws, like anyone else, but overall he’s a good cop and a good man. In my opinion, which is between us, I think you both bear some responsibility for this mess.”

“No one’s pulling him off his shift, though.”

“No, they’re not. And that’s just the way it’s going to be. This is a solution, okay? That works for everyone.”

“‘Solution’? You mean this was your idea?”

Wulf said nothing.

Hastings said, “So this is the compromise you’ve mediated? Me and my guys have to baby-sit a senator and his family?”

“George, you’re only looking at the downside of this. You’re not getting demoted. Howard’s not getting demoted. No one is getting any formal discipline placed in his file. You have been given an assignment that will last for, at most, ten days. Just while the senator is in town for a few days. By the time it’s done, everyone will have cooled off. Trust me on this.”

“It’s shit duty.”

Wulf’s expression hardened, his patience exhausted.

“Okay, maybe it is,” Wulf said. “But tell me, Lieutenant, when did you become exempt from that? When did you reach the point that you get to pick and choose what assignments you work? ’Cause let me tell you, I don’t have that luxury, and I’m your fucking supervisor.”

Hastings started to answer, but Wulf raised his hand and said, “Whatever talent you possess as a homicide detective does not exempt you from regular police work. That includes working traffic, internal affairs, and, yes, stakeouts. If you think you get to pass all that shit by because it’s beneath you, you better resign now and open up your own goddamn detective agency.”

Wulf stood up. Hastings remained seated.

Wulf said, “You are to report to Captain Anthony in administration at oh eight hundred hours tomorrow morning and proceed under his supervision. That’s an order.”

Professor David Chang taught Calculus I and II, Differential Equations, and Advanced Engineering Mathematics at a small private university in eastern Ohio. The university and town were tucked away in the mountains, about an hour’s drive from Zanesville. He was a slight man, about five seven, with thick dark hair and a sort of fluid, easy manner. He was also a spiffy dresser, well groomed, and stylish.

His Differential Equations class was often discussed in somber tones by the engineering students. “You got Chang for Diff-E-Q? Good luck, man. It separates the men from the boys.” Smart guys were known to have failed his class. A common ritual for his most recent engineering students was to be handed back their first graded exams. About two-thirds of the class would receive Fs. A pall of anxiety and gloom would descend over the classroom and invariably one of the students would meekly raise a hand and ask, “Uh, do you grade on a curve?”

Chang’s answer was always the same: “That’s not my style.”

Now he took a question from one of the students regarding the use of the del operator. With his usual patience, Chang went through the problem on the board again. The bell rung and Chang dismissed the class.

Chang dropped by his office for only a few minutes. He did not want to be there too long, lest one of his students come by for help. He checked his messages and his schedule. He had one week to prepare the fourth exam for the semester. Then there would be the final exam in mid-December.

He left the engineering building and started the walk to his car. He had unlocked the car door when a man called out his name.

“David.”

Professor Chang turned and looked at the dark-haired man standing a few feet from him. It took him a moment to place the colonel. But only a moment.

“John,” Chang said.

Chang moved toward John Reese, extending his hand for the greeting.

“John. My God, how are you?”

“I’ve been better. David. I’m calling you David now.”

“It’s my Christian name,” Chang said. “My wife converted, too. Years ago. She’s a Eucharistic minister now at the church.”

His name before had been Yu Kam-Chai. He was born in Beijing. He had a sister who was a prostitute and had eventually become enslaved by one of the triads. She angered one of the mid-level bosses and he beat her to death with a teakwood club. Yu Kam-Chai wanted to avenge her death, but his sister’s killer was a
shan-chu
, a protected enforcer of the 14K Triad. Kam-Chai was willing to give his life to avenge his sister, but he was not willing to surrender the lives of his own wife and children, who would be killed along with him. An American agent, posing as a businessman, approached him and offered to help. The American agent said he would kill the
shan-chu
in exchange for information about the 14K’s narcotics trade and its relationship with Taiwan. The American told Kam-Chai his name was Lessert, but Kam-Chai would later learn that it was Reese. A sniper’s bullet took care of the
shan-chu
. A year later, things got hot for Kam-Chai and Reese smuggled him and his family out of the country and set them up in the States. Yu Kam-Chai became David Chang.

Now Chang paused. “John, are you all right?”

Reese said, “I need your help.”

Reese felt uncomfortable in their living room.

He had always liked Chang’s wife, who had taken on the name Mary since coming to the States. And he was glad to see her now. It had been fourteen years since he had brought them here. Mary Chang was still slim and attractive. She called him John and insisted he have some tea.