The Informers (The Stringers Book 2) Page 4

  Leading him west, I drove across Harbor Island through the labyrinth of shipping crates and then across the bridge. Forced to stay on the main roads I kept turning until I was moving south, the man still behind me. I waited for a place to make a u-turn or lose him at an intersection. No opportunity presented itself. Eventually I found myself driving back across the bridge into SoDo.

  Although by now I was frustrated, I put aside any thought of pulling over and brandishing my gun in front of McCullen’s man. I maintained a moderate speed, made it seem I wasn’t aware of him yet. I then started recalling by memory all the safe house locations in that part of Seattle. There was a master map in McCullen’s office and in Olan’s, but nowhere else. Stringers were never taught the full list for security reasons.

  I took out my city map and located the nearest one five blocks away on 3rd Avenue and Brandon. When I reached the address I left my car running and hopped out. I headed into the building, a large pile of compost material leaning against the right wall. I held my credentials high in front of my face as I entered and the guard stepped out from his hiding place and waved me through to the phone booth. I dialed the number for the phone I had installed in the dining car, a number only Jean and I knew.

  I didn’t expect for her to still be there at that hour but she answered after the third ring with a heavy weight in her voice. I ignored it and asked her to be waiting for me inside the parking garage on the fourth level and to wear one of my older suits.

  “Why do you need me to wear your suit?” she asked.

  “No time to explain. Just be there in ten minutes.”

  “I will do it if you promise to tell me why.”

  “I promise.”

  “I will be there in ten minutes.”

  I left the safe house and got back into my car. The man had parked his car around another building across the street, its front protruding out past a bush. I shifted gears and drove away. After I had gone a quarter of a mile, I watched him turn onto the street. When we had gone about a mile he suddenly turned right onto the next road. For a moment, I was convinced he had decided I was not worth chasing for the rest of the day. Then a mile down the road he reappeared on the parallel street and for the first time I got a good look at the make and model of his car. It was a refurbished sedan with noticeable modifications on the exterior. The hood had been enlarged to accommodate more cargo and all the windows were tinted a pitch black. It passed for a vehicle in Seattle, but in Bellevue it would stick out instantly.

  Reaching the parking garage, I looked over. The sedan driver could not see me. I accelerated rapidly into the garage and descended until I reached the fourth level. There, Jean stood between two cars scratching at the itchy clothes. Though the suit was far too tight for me, it came down to her shoes and she had rolled up the pant legs and jacket sleeves. She was wearing one of my flat caps, the gray one. She had it slanted over her face so it covered her forehead, with her hair stuffed underneath it.

  As soon as I got to her I stopped and opened the driver’s door. She hastened over to me and exchange places, sliding into the seat and adjusting it so that her head was as high to the steering wheel as mine and would look no different to someone driving behind her.

  I looked over at the down ramp and didn’t see the driver yet.

  “Drive to the newspaper and park in the parking area in the back. Enter the building from the back but then hide out in that old closet near the hallway. Not long after you, someone will come in trying to follow you. They’ll probably head upstairs. When they do, give them a moment or two, then go straight back to the car and go home. But for the love of God, make sure you’re not followed.”

  She nodded. “Do not get into more trouble.”

  I scrambled for the exit door and burst through it looking back just long enough to see her drive away as the door closed. I then continued down to the fifth floor and found Carlos, one of the garage attendants. It was late morning, so he was most likely on his third large mug of coffee. He was old and large and slow and when he noticed me he took his time finishing his mug before he rose and shook my hand with a sweaty palm so big it swallowed half my arm.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “I could really use my Royal.”

  He turned and called out to another attendant standing down the garage who was half his age, but twice mine, and the man disappeared. A couple minutes later, he arrived in the seat of my Royal Enfield motorcycle. He stopped, kicked out the kick-stand and left it for me with an envious glimmer in his eyes. I smiled and hopped onto it, revving the engine before I took off and drove up the five floors and out the entrance.

  The motorcycle was a Royal Enfield in name only, with the frame being the only original section. The rest of it had been jury-rigged by Carlos, who had put it together after two years of tinkering with it and scouring for the necessary parts. It had been a labor of love, but his health and weight had killed the dream of ever riding it before he had even begun work on it. Unwilling to let it sit idle, he had sold it to me in exchange for several favors I had done for him. Carlos and others like him did not understand or care for the concept of money or currency. They bartered in favors. A man who had ten million dollars but could do them no favors was penniless.

  Speeding across SoDo, I traveled up into the International District and then onto the highway, the wind nipping at my face as the road dipped down and entered a large wide tunnel that would take me underneath Lake Washington. Though it was rush hour in Bellevue, the tunnel was all but barren like a concrete wasteland.

  I ignored all the speed limit signs and drove as fast as was possible for the engine; the speedometer rattled around sixty five. Not fast, but as an alternative mode of transportation, it was invaluable. There was nothing to worry about with the local cops. They had a handoffs policy in our territory when it came to traffic laws, and we had strict orders not to quarrel with traffic cops on the occasion they decided to enforce them. They could issue tickets, but a small bribe would convince them to give lots of warnings.

  When accidents occurred, the parties involved were usually quick to resolve the matter before tempers flared and guns got drawn.

  Now in Bellevue, seeing the Prizm-blank stare of a pedestrian reminded me to wear my fake one. I took it out of my pocket and slapped it onto the side of my head. I was off the ISA’s wanted list, but that status was not permanent. Technically, I had been temporarily switched, and it was still considered suspicious for people to go about in public without wearing one. Under a new federal law, not having your Prizm visible qualified as reasonable suspicion for cops to confront and temporarily detain you.

  I was in no hurry to land back in police custody and jeopardize my freedom.

  Besides, Casey didn’t tolerate tardiness.

  His patience, like mine, was running out.

  Chapter Four

  I parked in the lot behind Riordan’s and came in through the back-entrance door intended as an emergency exit. The alarm system had been disabled ten years ago and through a glitch it was never restored when the new owner had taken over.

  Casey was sitting at our usual table with his back pressed against the chair and his hands folded in his lap staring off into space. I came over to him and knocked on the table. He didn’t respond until I was pounding on it. His hair was cut crisp and short and he was wearing a new dark double-breasted suit. A bright lapel pin gleamed on his chest like a family heirloom. It designated his rank of senior officer supervising, a promotion from his previous title.

  I pointed at the lapel pin. “I see you’ve been promoted. When did this happen?”

  “Last week.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t sound so happy,” I observed.

  He took off his Prizm and mentioned that he had already ordered the usual. We said nothing and waited until the waitress brought our food. As we ate Casey kept wrinkling his nose. He leane
d forward and sniffed and when I looked at him he turned and poured more cream into his coffee, sprinkling a small amount of sugar before he sipped on it.

  Hungry and in a hurry, I scarfed down my food while waiting for him to speak, but when I was finished eating he had not said a word.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  No response.

  Casey had hardly picked at his food. He chewed on the inside of his lip as he sipped on more coffee then set it aside. He had a folder sitting next to his food. I pointed at it and asked what it was. He murmured something I didn’t understand.

  “Did something happen this morning?” I asked.

  “Something happens all the time.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “With who?”

  “I don’t know. Someone.”

  “Why? You just made Senior Officer Supervising. Your father didn’t make that rank until he was five years older than you are now. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  Casey kept sipping on his coffee. “It is. It is.”

  “Then how could you be angry?”

  “Because promotions do not make up for everything.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  He leaned forward once more and sniffed, this time lingering in that position as he looked up at me.

  “You’re still smoking,” he remarked. “I told you to stop.”

  I faked a cough and laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I’m trying but every time I try I pick the wrong day to quit.”

  The waitress came by and Casey asked for more coffee and she returned with the pot and a new mug and filled it up. He added cream but no sugar this time. He drank it and sighed deeply.

  “What’s in the folders?” I asked.

  “What do you have to offer me?” He then looked at me severely.

  “Afraid I don’t have much.”

  Casey’s frown seemed carved into his face. His posture was firm and proper, but his face had a haggard appearance despite his flawless shave and personal grooming.

  “What am I supposed to tell Cochran when I get back to the office?” he asked. “I told him I’d be meeting my contact. I told him I would have something to report. Now you’re telling me there is nothing to give him.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The same thing I’ve always wanted, Roy. Are we talking about the same thing?”

  He sighed and unbuttoned the very top button of his shirt and placed his elbows on the table.

  “I thought we had an agreement,” he said. “You would give me information I could use. In return, I’d do what I could for you from my end. Thus far, I have fulfilled my obligation and responsibilities as part of this agreement.”

  “Tell your superiors they need to be patient,” I said.

  “You’ve been working there for a year.”

  Casey ran his hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. He sipped on more coffee and yawned. I looked at the bags under his eyes. He yawned again.

  “Not getting any sleep?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not the entry level officer anymore, Roy. I’m a high-ranking officer now. I have a lot more responsibilities and duties. They’re time consuming and constantly eating up my time and energy.”

  I didn’t have much sympathy for him. Such was the life at the ISA, the same agency that had wronged me, my father and tens of thousands of others. He knew my offer to join me was still open.

  “At least they trust you to handle it,” I said.

  He looked away from me. “There’s a price to pay for it. There’s always a price to be paid.” He then shot his head up and stared. “You’re telling me you don’t have anything to give me?”

  I needed his cooperation. He was the only thing keeping me off the ISA’s wanted list. I just needed him to appreciate it even more.

  “I’ve got something, but nothing like what you’re looking for,” I said.

  “Let me see it, anyways.”

  I produced the piece of paper and handed it to him. He took it and placed it into one of the folders. The information was safe to hand over. It pertained mostly to rival newspapers, contained several facts about McCullen that would keep them intrigued but not compromise the newspaper itself.

  “My superiors want something, Roy,” he said as he put the paper away. “They want something important. And they want it now.”

  “What are they planning?”

  Casey shook his head, his eyes cast down at the table. “They want to start cracking down on the gangs in Seattle. But they can’t do it if they don’t have someone on the inside giving them the necessary details. I’ve told them you can do it. They’re more than willing to offer that pardon the moment you do.”

  I put my hands on the table. “What about my father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know where he is? Can you tell me where he is? I heard they’re planning to move prisoners to that new facility out by the Tri-Cities. Any idea if he’s one of them?”

  “No, Roy,” he said. “I’ve told you a thousand times. I am not privy to that kind of information. They will not tell me a thing about him. They know I’m close to you and they are not willing to divulge that kind of information about a prisoner who is known to the officer in question.”

  The background music had shifted from the Beatles to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, and their soft voices seemed to relax us both. Casey finally gathered up the folders. He thrust them under his arm and buttoned back up his shirt collar. He put his Prizm back on but didn’t turn it on. He raised his chin high and addressed me like he was a military officer giving an order to a subordinate.

  “The raids are going to happen whether you help us or not,” he declared. “You can’t either be a part of it, benefit as a result, or you do your best to stay out of the way when they happen. I can only help you when you provide me with something to give them in exchange. It’s the price that needs to be paid.”

  He left the restaurant with the same depressed expression. I took my time finishing my coffee and thanked the waitress who seemed surprised when I looked her in the eye.

  The air had chilled considerably, and there was a thin layer of frost on the ground as I walked out the front of Riordan’s. I pulled up my coat collar and stepped back into the nearby alleyway as I reached for a cigarette. I got halfway through it without being noticed and decided it was enough and smothered the rest of it under my boot. I walked north along 108th and followed it to where my contact would find me. I had resolved to put an end to the delays, the stalling. I’d get what I wanted out of him. My conversation with Casey, however, had tempered it.

  But I knew it could not go on. Sooner or later, I’d have to give Casey something substantial or I’d have to cease contact with him entirely until the heat was off. Chances were, I’d be forever under McCullen’s watchful eye.

  Some choice.

  ***

  I had never been to O’Donnell’s before, having only read about it in an article for the Record. It was the last remaining car repair shop of its kind west of the Cascades and north of Vancouver.

  Actually, there were plenty of repair shops like it. They just weren’t legally operating.

  Located in downtown Bellevue, O’Donnell’s was small, no more than fifteen hundred square feet. The waiting room was arranged like a pub, stools placed against the wall. A coffee machine gurgled, the black watery substance in the pot precipitating as the condensation fogged the side. A sofa chair was situated against an electric heater within a fireplace frame. When one of the workers opened the door behind the counter to the service garage, there was momentary din of drills and wrenches. The blended smell of oil, grease, and gasoline permeated the room until the door closed again.

  I sat in one of the chairs to the side of the fireplace, drumming the chair’s arm with my fingers as I listened to one of the c
ustomers argue with the manager about the price of a repair job that had been estimated to cost two thirds the final price. The manager explained all the additional costs that had been added, including the rarity of the parts to complete the job. The customer sipped on the coffee in a Styrofoam cup and shook his head but eventually nodded and paid the manager.

  Both were old and their age made the confrontation seem natural and ordinary but if it had it occurred anywhere else it would have been considered entirely uncouth.

  In another business, the customer and manager would have communicated through their Prizms and reached an agreement without a word exchanged between them. The outburst of frustration would have drawn quiet glares and unspoken contempt. But O'Donnell's was a repair shop for combustion engines only, and the number of possible clients in the region had narrowed every year.

  Why my contact chose to meet me there I could only surmise, and none of my guesses were satisfactory.

  I had already been forewarned by my last contact, equally as anonymous, that this man had rules to be kept if I wanted his cooperation. When he arrived, he would remain on one side of the shop where I couldn’t see him but we could speak privately. I wasn’t to look at him or move out of my seat.

  I went over to the coffee pot and filled a small cup and added a bit of cream, eying the cantankerous-looking O’Donnell as he concluded the transaction with the customer. He looked at me and waited for me to speak to him, but then sized me up and realized I was there for alternative reasons. He nodded his head and went into the service garage. I sat back down. Moments later, the doorbell jingled as someone entered on the other side of the large fireplace. They shuffled across the carpet and approached the fireplace, standing on the opposite side as I where I could not see them, only their shadow on the carpet.

  A short exhale. Then a raspy voice spoke to me.