Noble Intentions: Season Four (9 page)

He led Jack to the right, down the hallway, then pulled out a set of keys that jingled and clanked and bounced off one another. He fumbled through them.
Opened the door to a maintenance room. Smelled like anti-freeze and oil. Fluorescents dangled from the ceiling and lit the room the majority of the room.
The corners remained encased in shadow. A cluttered old wooden desk occupied a space along the wall mid-way between the front and back. Racks of servers
hummed to the left. Past them, four telephone panels were mounted on the wall. Copper-wire spaghetti twisted and looped upward into a conduit. Tools hung
from a pegboard. A hammer and a mallet, both with grease-covered handles, were positioned next to each other. Easy access, should Jack need them.

Grease Stain pointed at the door at the far end. "Go through there. You're gonna be in an alley behind the hotel. Go left, you get to Columbus. Go right,
all the way to the dead end, then left and you'll come out on 82nd. If that ain't good enough, cross the street and you'll hit an alley. That leads to a
big opening between the buildings. There's another alley across the way takes you to 83rd. From there, the park is less than a hundred feet to your right.
Put you right next to Summit Rock."

Jack nodded, crossed the room. Looking back at the guy, he said, "No hard feelings?"

The guy sniffed and looked up from his desk. "Just hope you never encounter me outside this building. I'll end you if I see you again. All right?"

Tough talk from a guy who'd been verbally defeated already. He'd all of a sudden regained his manhood with Jack well out of reach.

Jack turned his back on the guy and headed toward the door. Fans inside the server equipment buzzed like a hive of excited bees. When he reached the back
of the room, he half-expected the door to be locked, and when he turned, he would see Grease Stain coming at him with a grease-stained hammer in hand.

But it didn't come to that.

The latch gave, and the door opened. Light temporarily blinded him. Warm air rushed into the chilled room. After his eyes adjusted, Jack stuck his head out
and scanned the alley. Didn't see the man who'd been following him. Only the backs of buildings, overflowing dumpsters, wind-blown trash strewn across the
asphalt. Perhaps the guy had spotted Jack through the window, and now stood in the hotel lobby, minutes from tracking Jack to the maintenance room. Of
course, the guy could have continued on 81st, either taking the 79th Street transverse to the Upper East Side, or heading north or south on Central Park.
Didn't matter. Forward was the only option for Jack regardless of the actions of the other man.

He stepped into the man-made valley. The surrounding buildings trapped the heat, not allowing the breeze to penetrate the urban canyon. The only change in
the air came when a door opened and the stifling air rushed through the gap, allowing a new wave to take its place from above.

Jack looked left, headed right. When he reached the end of the alley, he turned left. Moments later, he cut across 82nd and found the narrow passage the
mechanic had mentioned. On the other side of it, he spotted the next alley, across the opening and to the right. He checked behind. No one followed. The
guy had to be close. But in this city, he thought, that meant nothing.

On 83rd, he contemplated whether to head to the Park or Columbus. An approaching taxi gave him a third option.

And he took it.

New York City.

CLARISSA AND BECK left before dawn. They hit Philly before traffic. Trenton afterward. Didn't matter once they entered Manhattan, though. The last leg
of the journey took twenty minutes longer than it should have. She doubted it mattered to the guy they were going to meet.

Because he didn't know they were coming.

Detective Harris was a name she dug up late the previous night. The guy had a long history with Charles. What information the men shared had remained
unknown, though.

Harris had a clean record. On paper, he appeared to be a good cop. Model citizen, too. Wife, two kids, two dogs. A lot to live for.

They encountered no trouble at the precinct's front desk. Secret Service credentials had that effect, Clarissa had learned. The young female cop pointed
them in the direction of Harris's office.

After that, they were on their own. Cops had a way of sniffing other cops. The looks they gave the duo indicated they could tell Clarissa and Beck were in
some form of law enforcement, but not one of their own. She supposed they figured Beck and her for FBI.

Turning toward her, Beck said, "It's always like this. They'll cooperate, though there will be plenty of resistance at first."

Clarissa nodded in response. Then she aimed a finger into the glass walled room in front of them.

"That's him," she said.

"You sure?"

"His photo was recent."

Beck reached out for the door, opened it, and waited for her to go through.

"Detective Harris?"

The guy turned toward them. His eyes narrowed and she could almost see him concocting a story that would pass as cover for almost any question.

"Who the hell are you guys?" Harris said.

"I'm Agent Beck. This is Agent Abbot. We'd like to have a word with you. Have someplace private we can talk for about fifteen minutes?"

"Agents? For who?" He glanced at each in turn, holding their attention like a blackjack dealer waiting for a call of hit or stand.

"We'll explain that in a moment," Beck said.

"Hell you will," Harris said. "Let me see some creds. Now. Or you can take a hike."

Smiling, Clarissa said, "We just need a few minutes to ask you about someone."

"Then you can tell me who you are."

Beck showed the man his ID.

Harris's eyebrows went up. "Secret Service? What's this have to do with me?"

"We'll explain all, Detective," Beck said. "In private."

Harris hiked his thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go to interrogation."

Clarissa and Beck followed the guy out of the room and down the hall. They entered a room labeled six, which contained a table and four chairs. Nothing
else. Harris seated himself with his back to the tinted glass. His normal seat, Clarissa presumed.

Beck grabbed the empty chair next to Harris. It scratched and created a high-pitched whine as he dragged it around the table and placed it next to the seat
Clarissa was lowering herself into.

Harris fidgeted with his cuffs while Clarissa stared at him. Beck had told her they'd start off this way. Let the guy sweat a bit. Get into his mind and
let him ponder what they were there for. If he'd done something wrong, it would play on his psyche. If he hadn't, he'd try to figure out what could be
misconstrued.

He who talks first, loses.

"Never realized how cold it is in here," Harris said. "Detainees, they always mention it. Rub their arms and whine about the temperature. I mean, yeah,
it's a bit chilly, but nothing to bitch about."

"You enjoy interrogations?" Beck said.

Harris shrugged and glanced down at the table. "Never really thought about it. Part of the job, I guess. Pretty good at getting confessions. But it sucks
when half of them don't hold up because of some slime-ball lawyer finding a technical glitch."

Beck nodded. Clarissa didn't. She'd been on the receiving end of questioning in the past. The techniques used were meant to wear a person down until they
were willing to confess to escape the pressure being applied to them. She'd been too strong willed for that to happen. But not all were.

"Anyway, you didn't come up here to ask me about my interrogation techniques." He paused as though he expected an answer. "So what gives? What do you want
to know?"

"Charles DeCosta." Clarissa had learned to control the tensing that occurred every time she said the name. It occurred, but was not visible. "You have met
with him regularly in the past. Even now, when he's assumed a high-level position in a known criminal organization, you still have meetings with him.
What's it all about?"

She watched for Harris's position to change. For the man to give something away. But the guy remained in the exact same position. His forearms on the
table, right hand over left. Shoulders firm and back an inch. Head level. Eyes locked on hers.

Harris took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "I guess we'd have to go back a dozen or so years. Before then, DeCosta was a mechanic for a crime boss who went
by the moniker of the Old Man. Name was Feng, but few knew that. From working in the garage, DeCosta went to being Feng's chauffeur. Interesting jump,
right? Anyway, back then I was working robbery and we pinched DeCosta for something stupid. I think he stole a case of purses and hawked them out of a
trunk. Something like that."

"Did he do jail time?" Beck asked.

Harris said, "No, no he didn't. He passed on a little information to me, something he had gathered about a rival organization, and for that, I let him
walk. No one on his side of the tracks knew. But I had him with that. You gotta remember, this is not the DeCosta we know today. I doubt it would go down
the same way."

"So go back to then," Beck said.

"OK. I put a regular tail on him. Caught him doing some other stuff. Kept a list of it. Then I'd find him on the street, or at home alone, and tell him
what I had on him. In turn, he'd give me more information. Went on like that for more than a few years."

"Then what happened?"

"He started rising through the ranks. Became the equivalant of a mafia capo. It was harder to pin things on him, and the shit I had from the past, DeCosta
didn't sweat that anymore. He had the full backing of Feng. Which also meant if I tried to strong arm him by saying I'd out his relationship with me, we'd
both be fitted for concrete boots."

"So why do you still meet? We've got a source that puts you two together recently."

Harris leaned back. First time he'd moved other than to speak. "He stills gives me information. But it's more of a one for one thing these days."

"So you warn him of impending action?"

Harris held up his hand and shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

"Then what is it like?" Beck said.

Harris leaned forward, one arm on the edge of the table, chest resting against it. "The people I report to know about my relationship with DeCosta.
Everything we talk about is in those files. You want to read up on it, be my guest. But I doubt they'll humor you as much as I have."

"We'll do that, Detective," Beck said, rising.

Clarissa joined him. They met at the door. Harris remained seated and didn't look back.

"One more thing," Beck said.

Harris said nothing.

"What do you know about a counterfeit ring being run by DeCosta?"

Harris's chair scratched the floor as he scooted back. He took his time standing, and then turning. He looked at Beck. Laughed.

"That guy pockets probably ten thousand a day. At least. He's already printing his own money through all his enterprises. Why the hell would he need to do
so illegally?"

"Thank you, Detective," Beck said. "We'll see ourselves out."

Five minutes later, they stood outside in the summer heat. Clarissa waited until they were out of earshot of a group of cops talking and drinking coffee.

"Do you think mentioning the counterfeit operation was a good idea? What if he goes right to Charles with it?"

"We've got a dozen eyes on that operation," Beck said. "And now we're going to have someone watching Harris. If something changes, then we'll know he went
to DeCosta and warned him. And you know what that means?" He didn't allow her time to respond. "We'll know that DeCosta is behind it."

Near Langley, Virginia.

THE GUY LEANING against the blue Malibu lifted his chin as Brett Taylor pulled into the diner's parking lot. Over the past three months, Brett had been
given three contacts. Each had information about specific Black Ops groups. One of the contacts had Brett take out an entire team, a mission that would
require months of planning for some. Brett completed the job in four weeks. The next contact only had three names for Brett, along with a request that each
death had to look like an accident. The agency these men were involved with wasn't as clandestine as some of the others. There were people, the kind who
were too high up the political food chain to know about the operation, who would notice if the three men were all slaughtered. Accidental deaths, while
occurring close to one another, could be written off as coincidental. So long as no evidence was left behind.

And Brett Taylor never left evidence behind.

He parked his Escalade four spots down from the Malibu, then waited for the guy to make his next move. Nothing had been predetermined. Maybe they'd meet
here. Perhaps the guy planned on getting back in his car and driving off. Brett would follow if he did.

Turned out, the man made it easy on Brett. He walked over to the passenger door, and got in.

"Drive off," the guy said. "Go right."

Brett put the Escalade in reverse, and exited the lot to the right.

A mile down the road, the guy said, "Ballard. Joe Ballard. I don't know your name, not your full name at least. And I don't want to. I also don't care to
know anything about you. What you did before this. Where you grew up. Your wife and kid's names. None of that. Got it?"

Brett glanced over and nodded. "Whatever floats your boat, Ballard."

They drove on another ten minutes, west, away from Langley. Any further and they'd be in the country. Brett studied the rear-view for a tail. Of course, on
a road like this they needn't be close. Ballard could've picked a spot and arranged for a team to either be there, or to show up there at a predetermined
time.

Ballard pointed at the approaching intersection. "Make a left."

Brett glanced at the GPS in the dash. The road went on for a couple miles and dead-ended. There were no tributaries branching off. At least according to
government satellite. Around these parts, there might be arteries purposefully left hidden to keep passersby from exploring.