Before the Dawn, page 23
“It's a deal,” Logan echoed.
The two men shook hands.
“Okay,” Seth said, after a sip of coffee, “what about this famous computer disc?”
Logan sat down again. “Well, I've got my best cryptology program working on it. Could take ten minutes, ten hours, or ten days. There's no way to know. But it will work. It's never failed me yet.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I haven't slept in four days.” Seth followed this with a world-class yawn. “Can I crash on the couch?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Take the guest room.”
“Rad. Point the way.”
Logan showed his guest to the bedroom.
Seth flopped onto the bed, saying, “Call me when your computer has good news for us.”
“Will do.”
“And why don't you catch some z's? You look like shit, partner.”
Half a smile dimpled Logan's lightly bearded cheek. “Manticore wasn't big on tact, either, I see.”
“Isn't that something you put on the teacher's chair?”
The two smiled at each other . . . and, for the first time, felt like friends.
FEDERAL BUILDING
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019
Donald Lydecker was livid.
Normally a man whose emotions were held in tight check, Lydecker—in a gray zippered jacket, black T-shirt and black jeans—stood in an FBI office in the Federal Building at Second and Madison, his temper taxed to its limits.
“You're not going to help,” he said, “with a matter of national security?”
“I didn't say that,” said Special Agent in Charge Gino Arcotta, seated behind a desk piled with work. “Not exactly.”
Arcotta was a thin, fit man of thirty-eight, his short hair black and curly, his angular face cleanly shaven, his brown eyes alert and sharp.
“What I said,” he continued, “is that I don't have any men available to assist you, right now.”
“Perhaps I'm not making myself clear,” Lydecker said. “This is a matter of . . .”
“National security,” Arcotta said wearily, with just a touch of temper, himself. “Colonel, let me be perfectly clear. . . .”
Richard Nixon, 1968, Lydecker thought.
“This office is manned by six agents, three on days, three on nights. That's all the manpower Washington has allotted us . . . and even with that small a staff, we can't stay within our budget.”
“My budget is tight, too. That doesn't mean we shirk our responsibilities.”
Arcotta continued on, as if Lydecker hadn't even spoken: “Now, of the three day-shift agents, two are investigating a bank robbery across town. All three night-shift agents are investigating a kidnapping and are at this moment . . .” He checked his watch. “. . . in the sixteenth hour of their tour.”
“Even one man would be helpful, Agent Arcotta.”
“Colonel, the last day-shift agent is me . . . and this desk does not go unmanned; that's policy. Tell me, sir . . . where do you suppose I'm going to find agents to assign to you?”
“I can think of one place you might look,” Lydecker said sweetly, and exited the office like a man fleeing a burning building.
He wasn't going to get any help on the federal level, that was obvious. His own men wouldn't be here for another twenty-four hours, due to unsafe weather conditions grounding their aircraft in Wyoming.
Well, if he couldn't get help from the feds, he'd go farther down the food chain. . . .
Twenty minutes later, he stood across a desk from a police lieutenant.
“Four men for twenty-four hours,” Lydecker said. “That's all I need.”
The lieutenant—balding, forty, his teeth brown from cigarettes, hazel eyes in droopy pouches from too many years on the job—said, “How about twenty-four men, for four hours? Couldn't do that, either.”
Lydecker opened his fist to reveal a rubber-banded roll of bills; then he closed his fist again. “You look like a reasonable man—I can't believe that we can't reach some sort of compromise.”
The lieutenant was hypnotized by Lydecker's fist, which periodically opened—as if he were doing a flexing exercise with the roll of money—to provide green glimpses.
“All I need, Lieutenant, are four men, hell, two men, for twenty-four hours . . . until my own people get here.”
“We'd have to shake on it,” the lieutenant said.
Lydecker extended the hand with the roll of money, shook with the lieutenant, and brought the hand back, empty. He tossed a card on the desk. “My hotel is on the back . . . one hour.”
An hour later, in the hotel bar, Lydecker and his cup of coffee sat across a booth from two detectives and their beers; ancient Frank Sinatra ballads were filtering in over a scratchy sound system, and the smoke was stale enough to be left over from Rat Pack days, too.
The older plainclothes dick, in his fifties, looked to still be in pretty good shape, but his face was pallid, his dark eyes sad, his brown hair cut short and graying at the temples; his name was Rush, though he didn't seem to be in much of one. The younger dick, Davis, was thirty or so, with reddish hair, light complexion, and pale blue eyes.
“So,” Rush said, “the lieutenant said you needed help.”
“Yeah. Looking for somebody wanted in a federal matter.”
“We don't usually back up ‘federal matters,' Colonel. What's wrong with the FBI?”
“I heard in this town, you want something done, you go to the PD—was I told wrong?”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Rush said. “Your perp got a name?”
“Sort of.” Lydecker looked from Rush to Davis and back again. “Eyes Only.”
The detectives exchanged wary glances.
“I need to find him.”
Rush snorted. “Good luck. Give him our best.”
“There's got to be a way. Look at how you people lock down sectors, those hoverdrones everywhere—”
“Colonel.” Davis spoke for the first time. “We've been seekin' Eyes Only for years now . . . and we don't know one thing more than the day we started. He's careful, he's smart, apparently funded up the wazoo . . . and anybody who has had any dealings with him is absolutely loyal to him.”
“It's like trying to get a cult member to rat out their screwball messiah,” Rush said.
Lydecker twitched a nonsmile. “Well . . . there's a second suspect—tied to Eyes Only.” He withdrew from his inside jacket pocket a handful of stills taken from the SNN video of Seth. “Recognize him?”
They each took some of the photos and riffled through them, then exchanged sharp expressions.
Perking up, Rush asked, “You know this character's name?”
“I was kind of hoping you would,” Lydecker said gently. “I know you must recognize some of his playmates . . . those Seattle cops he's throwing around like confetti.”
“Listen,” Rush said, leaning forward. “All we know is this kid beat the shit out of some very good people . . . and we would seriously like to pick his ass up.”
“And put it down hard,” Davis added.
“Sounds like we're on the same page,” Lydecker said. “But is that really all you know about this boy? You don't know why he got into this tussle with your brothers in blue? Convenience-store robbery? Flashing schoolkids? What?”
Rush exchanged another look with Davis, who shrugged. Then the older cop said, “Guy named Ryan Devane, sector chief, powerful guy. . . . Kid was interfering with his business.”
Davis said bluntly, “Hijacking payoffs.”
“Kid mixed it up with our boys,” Rush said. “And you never seen anything like it . . . got away clean. And now, Devane ain't been seen in several days.”
Lydecker, proud of his rebellious student, said, “Then Devane is dead. . . . This is a remarkable young man.”
“Tell me about it,” Davis said. “He broke my brother-in-law's collarbone.”
“But nobody's found this kid,” Rush said, “and believe you me, the PD looked every damn where.”
“Are they still looking?” Lydecker asked.
Rush shrugged, shook his head; Davis, too.
“Well then,” Lydecker said, sliding out of the booth, “let's get out there and start the search back up again.”
Lydecker spent the next six hours with Rush and Davis. Displaying the Seth photo, offering generous bribes for any Eyes Only lead, they rousted every snitch, every lowlife, every rat bastard the two detectives had ever met (and they had met a few), with no luck. He rode in the back of the unmarked car as they continued to drive around the city.
“How the hell is this possible?” Lydecker finally asked. “This Eyes Only son of a bitch has been working in this city for years . . . and no one knows anything?”
Rush, riding up front, smirked back at his passenger. “You're gonna make me say ‘I told you so,' aren't you?”
Lydecker resisted the urge to brood and thought, instead. Finally he said, “We may be going at this from the wrong angle.”
“You got an angle we ain't tried?” Davis, behind the wheel, asked.
“I think so. This remarkable young man we're looking for, he's got a medical problem.”
“What kind?” Rush asked.
“Seizures. Only thing that will control the symptoms is an enzyme called tryptophan. It's not a controlled substance, but a kid trying not to attract attention is gonna be buying it on the black market, anyway. . . . Any ideas where we might look for such a thing in your fair city?”
Once again the detectives exchanged looks, then nods.
“Sit back and chill, Colonel,” Davis said. “It's across town, and'll take the better part of an hour.”
On the way, Davis explained that the guy they were going to see had been busted twice in the last three years for selling controlled substances.
“And he's at large, why?”
“Guy's got a hell of a Johnnie Cochran.”
Lydecker smiled at the slang term, wondering if the cop knew enough about history to realize there really had been a Johnnie Cochran back before the Pulse.
Lydecker asked, “What's his name?”
“Johan Bryant.”
The unmarked car finally pulled to a stop in front of an upscale house in the suburbs, one of those retro ranch-styles the neo-affluent had been building lately. The whole street was lined with homes that probably sold for high seven figures.
“Nice digs for a drug dealer,” Lydecker said.
The well-tended, sloping lawn had a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign.
Rush said, “We are definitely in the wrong racket.”
Nodding, Davis said, “Colonel, practically every asshole in this part of town is into some kind of crooked shit. How else in this economy could they afford pads like these?”
“Why don't you arrest them?”
“We do,” Rush said. “But every mook in this neighborhood who ain't into crime is a defense attorney.”
So that's what they mean by “Neighborhood Watch,” Lydecker thought.
An attractive thirtyish honey-blond woman in an off-white slacks outfit answered the bell. She seemed to recognize Rush, and—without identifying herself (whether she was hired help or the man's wife or girlfriend remained a mystery)—led the little group to a large room off to the right.
The walls were pale yellow, the trim all white, the carpeting thick and heavy, also white. This might have been the living room, but Lydecker supposed it was a music room of sorts, since the only piece of furniture was a white grand piano where a man who just had to be Johan Bryant sat on the stool, his hand resting casually over the keyboard.
The man at the piano didn't rise when the trio walked in, Rush in the lead, Lydecker laying back. Tall, blond, and chiseled, Bryant might have been a member of the Hitler Youth if it hadn't been for his long hippie-ish hair ponytailed back.
“Rush, Davis—how's it hanging?” he asked, his smile wide and unrealistically white, the same shade as his white slacks; he wore a yellow V-neck pullover and sandals. A glass of clear liquid with a lemon floating in it sat on a coaster on the piano.
“I don't believe we've met,” Bryant continued affably, looking past the two cops at the unimpressive figure in the gray zippered jacket.
“Not yet,” Lydecker said, with a smile.
“Uncle Sam needs you,” Rush said to the dealer, pointing to the colonel.
“Not the Policemen's Health and Retirement Fund, this time, huh?” Bryant said, noodling softly on the keyboard.
“Zip it,” Rush said tightly.
Bryant smiled faintly, ironically.
The detectives approached Bryant at the bench. Lydecker was on the other side of Bryant; he withdrew the photos from inside his jacket. The dealer continued playing a meandering tune on the piano.
“We're trying to locate a suspect,” Lydecker said. “It's not a narcotics matter.”
Bryant noodled.
Lydecker said, “This individual uses tryptophan.”
The dealer said, “You can get that at pharmacies.”
“Pharmacies have to record sales of that nature. Customers have to sign. This individual wouldn't like that. Look at the pictures.”
Bryant noodled some more.
Lydecker held one of the photos of the male X5 in front of the dealer. “Have you seen him before?”
Bryant said, “No,” but he was looking at the ivories under his fingers.
Grabbing onto the man's ponytail for leverage, Lydecker shoved Bryant's face into the piano keys, making dissonant nonmusic, accompanied by a surprised, pained scream.
The woman came running, and she had a big gun in her little hand. But Davis plucked the weapon like a flower and walked her out of the room, disappearing with her.
Lydecker stepped back to allow the dealer to sit up, and compose himself; the man was touching his face—really, there were just a few cuts and welts, his forehead crying tears of blood onto his yellow sweater. Awkwardly, the dealer started to get up.
But Rush put a hand on Bryant's shoulder, holding him down. “Interview's not over.”
Bryant glared back at Rush, who shook his head. Lydecker took this to mean the dealer and these cops had an arrangement . . . but this matter was not covered by it.
The dealer sat down again, his hands going automatically to the keyboard—but no more noodling.
Lydecker gave the man a handkerchief and Bryant dabbed blood from his forehead, saying to the man who'd caused the wounds, “Thanks.”
“Would you mind taking another look?” Lydecker asked.
The dealer swallowed and looked at the photo Lydecker was holding up. “Yeah, now that I take a closer gander . . . turns out I have seen him before.”
“Do you remember where?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I can help you in that area. Glad to cooperate.”
Lydecker twitched a sort of smile, patted the dealer's shoulder, gently. “Always a pleasure to meet a civic-minded citizen.”
Bryant said, “If . . . if I tell you where he lives, will that be the end of it?”
“For you, yes,” Lydecker said.
And with any luck, he thought, for that rebel X5, too.
LOGAN CALE'S APARTMENT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019
Seth was still snoring on the guest room bed when Logan came in with the news.
Logan turned on the bedside lamp and carefully shook the boy to wakefulness, trying not to startle him—he would not like to be the alarm clock this sleeper took a swipe at.
“Com . . . computers come through?” Seth asked groggily, sitting up, yawning again.
“Patience has its rewards.” He gave Seth a sideways grin. “So does bitchin' software.”
Seth was alert, wide-awake now. “What did you find out?”
Within seconds, they were sitting in the living room, on the leather couch, Logan holding up a sheaf of papers. “When you copied that disc, my friend, you got us everything.”
“Everything? What everything is that?”
“Smoking-gun everything.” Logan tossed the papers on the coffee table. “The kind that includes dates, times, paintings, amounts . . . every damn criminal thing Sterling and Kafelnikov have been doing together.”
“No shit?”
“It's all here, Seth—every sleazy transaction . . . including the next one.”
Seth's eyes widened. “You know what they're going to do next?”
“We know, Seth.”
“Where and when?”
“That's right. It's just a matter of calling the FBI now.”
Seth's eyes tightened to slits. “Say what?”
Logan shrugged. “American Masterpieces Act violation—we'll call in the feds, have them arrested.”
“Logan, you can't be serious.”
“Why not?”
“Eyes Only cooperate with the feds? They're fuckin' corrupt—you always say so yourself.”
“There's corruption,” Logan allowed. “Widespread. But I have contacts with honest individuals in federal law enforcement.”
“Yeah, and I'll introduce you to the virgins down at the strip club.” Seth shook his head. “Listen, Logan, we got the chance to do two things here. We can stop these creeps Sterling and Kafelnikov, and we can come away with the nest egg I need.”
“The last time you ‘stopped' a ‘creep,' Seth . . . you killed him.”
“So that's what this is about. . . . Logan, I wouldn't whack either of these guys, not right now, anyway—they're our Manticore connection. And anyway, Jesus! Manticore is the federal government—Lydecker is a goddamn fed!”
Logan knew Seth was right; but the blood on the cyberjournalist's hands, from their last episode together, was still clinging and damp.
“Look,” Seth was saying, “we intervene when their next deal goes down, save some great slice of Americana for your conscience, Eyes Only exposes the racket with a big bad bulletin, and we help ourselves to a major contribution to the Seth Survival Telethon.”
Logan, shaking his head, rose and plopped into one of the side chairs. “You lose your head again, I'll be responsible for another death . . . maybe more than one.”
Seth leapt to his feet, gestured to himself. “You don't get it, do you? You're not responsible if I kill someone—I am!”
