Thin Line (9 page)

She shoved her hands in her coat pockets as she crossed the road toward her car. Streetlights shimmered off the ice that coated the asphalt. She nearly
fell twice. The sidewalks would be even more treacherous.

I called out to her as she pulled open her door. "I'll ride with you."

She got in and revved the engine. Light from her headlights washed over the street as she pulled away from the curb, drove past me, and made a sweeping
U-turn.

The front passenger seat was empty. Tinted windows prevented me from seeing inside the rear of the vehicle. She could have had a partner back there,
waiting for me to enter. I knocked on the window. She rolled it down.

"Roll down the back ones, too."

Shaking her head and muttering something indecipherable, she complied with my request. The backseat was empty. Satisfied we were alone, I pulled the
passenger door open and climbed inside.

The seat was cold and vinyl, and it sank under my weight. The vents blew hot, stale air into my face. My eyes felt dry. I glanced around the dash, looking
for anything that might be related to the case.

She pulled away from the curb, driving slowly along the icy road.

"Thanks for coming," she said.

"Didn't think you were going to leave me with much choice."

"Don't feed me that line. You know I'm powerless. Even if I bring you in, you'll call your people, who will show up and give my people a reaming, and then
my people will make sure I feel the same pain. In the end, I'm the loser."

"Sounds like you've done this before."

She nodded, looked at me. "It's pointless dealing with you Feds and Feebs."

"I'm not FBI."

"Didn't say you were, only that I've dealt with them before. They're the worst. More demanding than any prick of an ex I've ever had." She smiled, and then
continued when I didn't return the gesture. "Anyway, yeah, I've been down that road before. Figured when I saw your ID that you were going to freeze me out
right there."

"Too soon," I said. "Might still need your help."

"The feeling is mutual."

We fell into silence. She turned left, went a block, then turned right. Above streetlight level, darkness pervaded, interrupted only by the occasional glow
of a night owl's television lighting up a window or two. She pulled into the emergency room parking lot of the hospital, rounded the structure, and parked
in the rear.

"That's it." She aimed her finger in the direction of an unmarked and unassuming door.

We exited the car and trudged through the packed snow that covered the sidewalk. Someone had thrown down salt in front of the morgue entrance, which left
it strangely barren compared to the rest of the city. McSweeney entered first. Inside, she rapped her knuckles against a Plexiglas window and grabbed a
clipboard that held a sign-in sheet.

I expected her features to look hardened in the light. Twenty years on the street could age you thirty. There was a softness about her face, though. No
wrinkles. Tight skin. She was around my age. Maybe a couple years older. She had a kindness about her eyes, like they hadn't been witness to hundreds of
crime scenes and corpses.

"Can I put you down on here, Golston?"

"Better if you didn't."

A balding man wearing glasses appeared behind the window. "Detective," he said, and then his gaze shifted toward me. "Who's this?"

"He's with the Feds."

The man glanced down at the sign-in sheet. "He needs to be on here."

"He won't sign, but he might be able to help us with an identification. Can you turn your head this one time?"

The man said nothing. He shook his head slightly and reached under the counter. The door buzzed and clicked and cracked open.

"Thank you, Harold," McSweeney said.

We followed the slight man down a bright hallway. He waved a card in front of a magnetic reader and pulled open a thick door.

"Welcome to the morgue," he said. "Please do not touch, talk to, feed, or in any other way disturb our guests while they enjoy their slumber."

I looked at McSweeney. She shook her head and shrugged.

"OK," Harold said. "You're here for John Doe number four."

"You've got four John Does in here?" I said.

"No," he said. "Six. And if it gets any colder, I imagine we might climb into double digits. Oh, what fun that would be."

"You don't get out of here much, do you?" I said.

He ignored me, and instead traced his finger along a sheet of paper affixed to the wall and stopped on a line near the bottom. Mumbling, he tapped the line
a couple times, then turned and walked away from us toward a set of chilled lockers.

"Sorry," McSweeney said. "They're a bit odd down here."

"Not my first time in a morgue, detective."

"Here's your guy," Harold said.

McSweeney and I walked over to where the covered corpse of Neil McLellan was stored.

"Any personal affects?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Nothing," she said. "Found him naked."

I nodded, said nothing.

Harold pulled back a sheet covering the cold and ashen corpse. "Recognize him?"

Prepared to lie, I took a step to the left and leaned over the lifeless shell of bone and flesh laid out on the steel table. Then I told the truth.

"Never seen him before."

MCSWEENEY AND I exchanged contact information outside the morgue. She gave me her card. I gave her a forwarding number that pointed to my personal cell
phone. She offered me a ride. I declined and told her I preferred to walk so I could see the rising sun. The truth was I needed to get rid of her so I
could call Frank and let him know that Neil McLellan's body wasn't where it should be, and in its place was a true-to-life John Doe.

She slipped into her unmarked cruiser and shot me a quick smile. The engine turned over slowly after her first few attempts before roaring to life. A belt
whined against the cold. Her door swung open and she stepped out.

"Golston," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't cut me off, OK?"

"You'll be the second person I call if I hear anything."

She turned her head slightly to the left. "Who'll be the first?"

I shrugged, smiled, said, "You know I can't tell you that."

She dipped down and closed her door. The transmission groaned into reverse. Tires spun on icy asphalt. A minute later McSweeney's taillights faded out of
sight.

I didn't want to compromise my personal phone, so I hurried around the front of the hospital and stopped inside the first drug store I found. There I
purchased a disposable cell and called Frank from outside the store.

"Got trouble here," I said.

He exhaled into the receiver, then said, "Don't dance around it."

I told him everything, starting from the homeless ex-SEAL and stopped after telling him it wasn't McLellan's body in the morgue.

"The homeless guy, you sure he's a former SEAL?"

"Maybe. He looks the part, just a bit dirty. Talked about Panama like he was there."

"I want to keep you on the ground in New York for a bit longer, Jack. See if you can track that guy down and find out what he saw. If he insists he knows
nothing, then get him to introduce you to others who frequent the building. Someone had to have seen something. Also, check with your detective friend and
get her to tell you what time the first responder arrived at the scene. There's a gap, and during that time, somebody went back in and retrieved the body.
Was it McLellan's boss, someone else involved, or did Taylor take care of it? For all we know, he was there the whole time."

"Any luck on your end determining who sent McLellan in?"

"Still working on it." Frank paused, and then asked, "Any clue who the John Doe is?"

"Never seen him before in my life."

"Same cause of death?"

"By all appearances."

"So we've got someone replacing the body of a government assassin with an unlucky schmuck off the street."

"It'd help to have a time and cause of death on the body. Maybe the bullet was added postmortem." I couldn't get in to see the medical examiner, but I
might be able to find him after work. "I can double back and check with the ME."

"Wait on that." I heard Frank tap on his keyboard. "Let me see what strings I can pull there. It's probably better that we don't send you back in, but I'm
betting I can get my hands on that report."

"Remember, he's a John Doe to them. Guy called him J.D. number four."

"Is that everything?"

"Yeah." I glanced back at an approaching cab and held up my free hand. "You hear from Bear?"

"Was gonna ask you the same thing. Let me know if you do."

"Same."

The cab came to a stop in front of me. I hopped in and gave the driver an address three blocks from my apartment. Once seated on the hard seat, I ignored
his advances at conversation. There was too much to consider to be bothered with small talk. I scratched at a tear in the vinyl and gazed out the window.

More people cluttered the sidewalk today, even at this early hour. An eclectic mix of everything from tourists to nuns to businesspeople headed in each
direction. The morning sun had burned off a layer of ice from the sidewalks and the snowbanks piled high at the curbs, and trickles of runoff streamed
toward the sewers. If temperatures continued to climb, everything not hidden by shadows all day would melt away.

My thoughts turned to Brett Taylor. I knew little about the guy, but what I did know told me he could be anywhere by now. I had to assume that he was in
the crosshairs, and I wasn't the only one after him. A guy like him would have an advanced support network in place across the country, and maybe around
the globe, in the event he had to go to ground. It was entirely possible we'd never find him. I felt that our initial focus had to be on Neil McLellan. Who
was he? Who had employed him? Why was he inside Taylor's apartment?

I let a laugh slip. The cabbie looked up into the rear view and lifted his eyebrows, inviting me to share whatever thought had elicited the laugh.

I looked toward the side window. I couldn't share anything. Only two people could hear the thought running through my mind. And only one of them could
answer.

What the hell did Taylor do to warrant an attempt on his life?

Frank had claimed ignorance on this. I knew better. He didn't accept a job without knowing the details. Not that his intentions were altruistic. It was a
measure to cover himself in the event the job could come back to harm the agency. He lived and breathed the SIS. The fact that he'd called on me and Bear
to do the work meant it was shady. Just not enough for him to turn down entirely.

Or it had one hell of a payout.

The cab came to a stop two blocks away from the address I had given the driver. A line of cars, all stopped, extended as far as I could see. There was no
point in trying to get him to take me any further. I reached across the seat with a twenty in hand, then exited into a pile of snow. After climbing the
embankment, I joined a line of people trekking down the middle of the sidewalk. Those that had come before us had worn a path into the ice, leaving sure
footing for all who followed.

I didn't mind the extra walking it took to reach the apartment. The cold air refreshed me and cleared my head. I was close to deciding to get on a plane
back to D.C. to confront Frank over the source of the job and the reason behind it. Instead, in less than half a block of walking, I decided to stay put
for now. There were answers here.

I looked up and noticed Clarissa's bar a few steps ahead. It was early, but through the tinted front door, I saw her inside. She held a clipboard in one
hand and a pencil clamped between her teeth. She looked and reached upward, and appeared to be counting with her free hand.

I took a step back and grabbed the door handle. To my surprise, it was unlocked. Warm air rushed out as I pulled the door open. Clarissa didn't notice me
standing in the entryway.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," I said.

She glanced at me. Her cheeks turned red, a sure sign she was still angry with me. As quickly as she looked in my direction, her gaze returned to the
bottles she had been counting.

The door fell shut behind me. Bells strung vertically rang and jingled as they bounced off the wood. They hadn't been there the night before. Perhaps she
only strung them up there during the day. I hopped over the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and poured myself a drink.

Clarissa still said nothing. She continued counting inventory.

I leaned my head back and let the whiskey do its trick. Then I poured another one and returned the bottle to its place on the shelf.

"What are you doing here, Jack?"

I lifted the glass in a mock toast toward her. "Getting a drink."

She set her clipboard down and placed the pencil on top of it. The pencil rolled off and traveled along the bar top before falling onto the spill ledge and
rolling to a stop. Clarissa turned toward me, crossed her arms over her chest. Her head was tilted to the side. Strands of red hair fell across her face.
The dim lighting muted her eyes. Instead of their regular emerald green, they looked brown.

"I don't think I can keep doing this," she said.

"Doing what?" I grabbed the bottle again and poured a third drink. She reached up, retrieved a glass and set it in front of me. I splashed a couple inches
of whiskey into it for her. "We don't have to make this so difficult."

"That's the thing, though, right?" She took a sip, bit her bottom lip. "We do make it difficult. You're never around, Jack. And when you are, it seems all
we do is argue. Just like before."

I set my glass down and stepped toward her. She didn't block my advance. With my hands on her shoulders, I leaned forward so that we were eye to eye.

"Things are a little out of control with this job," I said. "But I promise, once this one is done, I'm taking a break for a few months. We can go anywhere
you want during that time. The Keys, Antigua, anywhere. You and me. No phones. No friends. Us."