ADX Praxis (The Red Lake Series Book 3) Read online

  “No idea.”

  Gaines toyed with his whiskers. Finally he said, “There was a spook in my office an hour ago. He’s working to get you turned over to him. I don’t have a good feeling about that.”

  “I suspect it might be a permanent arrangement.”

  “So if you were set up, why did they kill the woman?”

  Harry shrugged as he held up empty palms. “I don’t know, but it has to do with Praxis and the CIA.”

  “That’s a little far fetched, even for you Harry.”

  “Lou Harding interviewed Zhou Zhengzhong in Praxis two days ago. We followed Zhou back to the west coast. His new name is Charles Chan.”

  Gaines looked incredulously at Harry.

  Harry shrugged again. “CIA humor I guess. Anyway, he said he was sprung out of a New York prison to play the part of someone selling information to the Chinese. He was tried, convicted, sent to Praxis, and two months later he moved to sunny Carlsbad, California.”

  “And if I call him he will confirm this?”

  “I suspect he is too stupid to keep his mouth shut. If he didn’t he could already be dead or wishing he were.”

  Gaines walked over to the interview room door. When he knocked the door swung open.

  “Have someone run Charles Chan through the system. Resident of Carlsbad, CA.”

  The deputy nodded. Gaines closed the door.

  “You and your friend Barton didn’t get carried away, did you?”

  “I wouldn’t admit it if I did, would I? But I didn’t.”

  Gaines smiled and sat down again.

  “What am I going to do with you Harry? I can’t just let you walk, but if I keep you in here I think you are a dead man walking.”

  “Tough decision, Sheriff. I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.”

  Gaines went back to his mustache; Harry tapped a slow staccato with his fingers on the table’s edge.

  “I thought of something. My office is wired. After my house blew up I put a digital camera in the wall vent of the office. I download it wirelessly to my laptop computer.”

  “You may have just saved your sorry butt, Harry.”

  Gaines went back to the door. The deputy answered his knock. He glanced back, “I’ll check it out Harry.”

  Outside he spoke to the guard. “Put him in solitary. Nobody is to see him unless I am there. Nobody!”

  The deputy nodded, “Yes, Sir!”

  *

  Gaines used his flashers driving to Harry’s office. The clock was ticking and Clemson would be back sooner rather than later. Harry’s rental car was parked on the street. Gaines popped the lock with a slim Jim. He found the laptop was under the car seat. Two minutes later the camera’s digital files were downloading. Gaines ran the file back. He saw deputies working the crime scene inside the office. The body was gone. He scrolled back. This time the girl was still on the floor. Harry was sitting up but he looked like he had been drugged. Gaines worked the file back. It began when Harry sat up. So the camera was motion activated. He scrolled back and a man was in the office. Harry lay on the floor.

  The dark haired woman sat propped up in a chair as the man beat her mercilessly. The way her head snapped side to side with no resistance, Gaines knew she was out cold or already dead. He swung at her viciously, beating her until the face was unrecognizable.

  Gaines kept waiting to see the man’s face, but his back remained to the camera. The Sheriff thought he recognized the profile but the light from the desk lamp left the face in the shadows.

  The tall man dragged the brunette over and dumped her like garbage next to Harry. Then he stomped on the back of Harry’s hands. Harry did not even budge as his knuckles ground on the carpet. As a final touch he pushed Harry’s knuckles into the gore on the woman’s face. As he stood up, the man finally turned and Sheriff Gaines saw the face clearly.

  “Bingo!” Gaines said with satisfaction.

  He turned off the laptop and crossed the street to the Edison Building. The marble floored lobby was a throw back to a by-gone era. The mailboxes had cast, ornate bronze faceplates. The Sheriff took the stairs two at a time, until shortness of breath reduced his pace. He was puffing hard when he reached the second floor. Staying in shape was getting more difficult, he thought.

  A glass faced door read, Harry Grim Investigations. Crime scene tape sealed the door. He tore it off and let himself in. He pulled a straight back chair over to the wall. Standing on it, he pried the vent cover off the heat duct and retrieved the camera. He couldn’t risk another fire or explosion destroying his evidence.

  Chapter 52

  At the J Edgar Hoover Building in Washington DC a meeting of six people took place. Three were Branch, Executive Assistant Directors. The three other were Assistant Directors for an office under the EAD’s command. In the center of the large conference table, the remnants of a working breakfast remained. The three men each represented a specialty.

  From Technology Branch was EAD James Monroe, to his right was Tech Branches Assistant Director of the Office of the Chief Knowledge Officer. The next man was Nathan Simpson, EAD for the National Security Branch. Beside him was his AD for Office of Intelligence. The Last pair was EAD Addison Doyle, of the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch and his AD for the Office of Law Enforcement Coordination.

  Nathan nodded to two of the A.D.’s. “So we're here because Tech came up with an event cluster that indicated a situation where we would expect a request for Enforcement Coordination. But your office has nothing, correct?”

  The CCRS AD nodded her head.

  The Tech Branch’s Knowledge Officer spoke up. “It is inference drawn from computer data. A small town sheriff’s office in Red Lake has run a number of prints through IAFIS.”

  Nathan held up a finger to interrupt, “Red Lake is by BOP’s, ADX Praxis Unit, correct.”

  The AD nodded and continued. “Two sets of prints came up as soldiers who died overseas. Someone from the neighboring county ran an identical set. The guy who most likely fed them into the system died in his bathtub. A float plane registered in Canada went down yesterday. That has the Department of Homeland Security looking at it because there is no flight plan showing entry into U.S. airspace. It was their call that set us to back tracking records looking for a pattern.”

  “A pattern of what?” asked Addison Doyle. You thinking someone was poaching on our territory?”

  “Probably,” said the AD for Intelligence. “NTSB is looking into the plane crash, the pilot had a fatal bullet through him and the passenger had a crushed esophagus. It has them scratching their heads because the plane went down on takeoff. The fuel burn didn’t leave a lot to work with.”

  He flipped to the next page of his synopsis. As the AD turned his notes Nathan asked, “Is that it?”

  “No, there are other events that may or not tie in are,

  1 The Sheriff responded to a crime scene a few days before. The police found blood and brain matter but no body. No one was reported missing.”

  2 There was a gas explosion that took down a house but there were also two other house fires that week, though neither was an explosion.

  3 Perhaps the strangest of all, Edwin Alden Darwin’s body was exhumed and stolen from the local cemetery.”

  “And NTSB and Homeland are the only Agencies we’ve heard from?

  The AD nodded.

  The men were drawing unpleasant conclusions from the list of events. They were not happy. The Agency’s director, Harold Gunnerson, was as protective of the FBI’s sovereign right to operate domestic intelligence, as Hoover had been. He was as territorial as a cocker spaniel. Gunnerson would growl, snip and bite if he felt another agency was interloping.

  “So who’s in play?” Nathan asked.

  “That’s your ball,” said Monroe. We gather the facts; it’s your problem to sort it out.

  “So who do the facts tell you is in Red Lake, or is this all a red herring? It might be a series of coincidences,” Intelligen
ce asked of the Technology Branch.

  “It could, except for the prints of the two soldiers. Those men were never near Red Lake.”

  Jim Munroe and Addison Doyle began collecting their papers.

  “It’s your problem now,” said Munroe. “Who do you figure it is?”

  Nate Simpson ran a hand over his bald head. “Could be the Israelis, but God knows what would interest them there. It’s probably one of ours, CIA, DIA, hell it could be Home Land Security up to something while they pretend to know nothing.”

  “It does have a spy angle what with Darwin in the mix,” opined Doyle.

  “That was probably some warped kids or left-wing wackos, Darwin was old news, the Russians forgot about him years ago. I doubt they would bother to dig him up and repatriate him to the Motherland.”

  Monroe rose. “Good luck. I don’t want to be around when you tell the Director. He’ll blow a gasket.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Doyle. “He lives for these sort of incursions. They give him a chance to be testy and remind the other agencies that domestic is our bailiwick.”

  Nathan rose. “Thank you all,” he said, careful to nod to each of the A.D.’s who presented the information. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Gunnerson. Whether the Director enjoyed such incidents or not, such toe treading always required a ten-minute rant before he would dismiss Nate with a curt, “Take care of it.”

  As the others left the room Nathan pulled Addison aside. “Have your people send out the standard query to all agencies. I doubt anyone will confess to anything but it will let them know the heat is on.”

  “They might know who but not say.”

  “You overrate America’s ability to keep a secret Addison. National Security looks like a sieve sometime, it almost makes me envy those dictators we support around the world.”

  Addison went his own way in the hall. Nathan turned to his AD.

  “Get some people on it. I want to know who is running what out there.”

  Chapter 53

  Sheriff Gaines returned to the county jail. He ordered Harry released. Ten minutes later Harry came into the discharge room still wearing the street clothes he wore when arrested that morning. They bore bloodstains.

  From behind the wire cage a counter a deputy checked off items as he removed them from a shoebox and pushed them across the counter.

  “One nine-millimeter automatic, a shoulder holster, thirteen bullets, one wallet, sixty-five dollars and fourteen cents, one Rolex watch, a leather belt, a cell phone, and a handkerchief. Sign here.” The guard shoved a receipt ledger toward him. Normally the guard had more guff to give departing inmates but the sheriff’s presence caused him to curb his tongue.

  “Listen Harry,” said Gaines as they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

  “You’re in the clear, but I think it’d be good if you made yourself scarce for a couple days.”

  “I can’t. I won’t run.”

  “These people are killers.”

  “Been there and done that,” Harry replied.

  “This isn’t Afghanistan Harry. I’m getting tired of explosions, crashing planes, and dead bodies. We had a quiet little town here, I want it back!”

  Harry spread his hands and arms helplessly, “I don’t have anything to do with that.”

  Gaines laughed, “You’re a magnet for trouble Harry. And your buddy Barton is trouble,” he said stressing the last word. “Keep him on the right side of the fence, okay? I’ve seen his record.”

  The two men stopped in the parking lot beside the Sheriff’s car. Heat radiated up from the asphalt. In the torpid air, each silently appraised the other and recognized a degree of mutual respect.

  “By the way, Harry. You know that Asian guy you said was at Praxis but lived in Carlsbad?”

  “What about him?”

  “They found him floating in Lake Tahoe. The locals called it a fishing accident. He was found with his zipper down and his dick in his hand. They figure he was fishing, stood up to piss and lost his balance. His B.A.C. was .20 when he hit the water.”

  “Pretty drunk. Maybe he didn’t feel anything when they pushed him in.”

  Gaines nodded. Accidental death was becoming too common.

  “Can I take you anywhere? I don’t think your boat is a good idea.”

  “Sure, drop me at the Prop Shop.”

  *

  Gravel kicked up as the Sheriff spun out of the gravel lot and his wheels chirped as they hit the pavement. Across the street temporary pop-up’s sheltered the crash site where NTSB worked. Soon they would be gone and back in the lab. Harry saw the tail of Barton’s plane over by the south hanger. It was where they had left it. He was still around.

  Harry pulled his throwaway cell phone out, but it was dead. On the side of the Quonset hut that housed the bar were the remnants of a pay phone. The phone was gone and wires dangled from the back.

  “Can I use your phone?” he asked when he entered the bar.

  The bartender having seen Harry dropped by the Sheriff and uncertain who he was shrugged. He pushed a cordless across the counter.

  “It’s me. I’m at the Prop Shop.”

  The bartender loitered nearby, eavesdropping, but he learned little.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. pickup a new set of wheels though, something fast but tough enough to handle some heat.”

  He pushed the phone across the bar. “Give me a beer.”

  “Bottled or on tap?” The bartender was still sizing Harry up, seeing if he was trouble.

  “Tap is fine.”

  For an hour Harry sipped his beer. The small group at the back of the bar lost interest in the newcomer and returned to their brooding drinking. The murmur of voices and an occasional expletive came to Harry’s ears but he could not hear their conversation.

  The bartender made a couple desultory attempts to talk with him, but Harry shrugged him off. Harry heard wheels in the parking lot. A car door shut. Behind the counter Harry saw the bartender grasp the handle of a baseball bat. Looking into the mirror behind the bar he saw Barton Dirk beyond the grimy front window.

  The front door opened. The bartender tightened his grip on the bat. Without turning around, Harry pulled his coat back, baring his shoulder holster and gun.

  “Put it away. You won’t need it. And if you did, you would only get yourself hurt.”

  The bartender did not like being told what to do but he knew better. Forty years behind a bar taught him about self-preservation, danger, and the sort of man you shouldn’t cross. Barton slipped onto the stool next to Harry.

  “Give me a beer,” he said.

  From somewhere in the back of the room came the abrasive sound of the word ‘nigger’.

  “And send my friends over there a round of whatever they are drinking. If they don’t drink it I will consider it a personal insult.”

  The bartender poured a round of drinks, loaded a tray and shuffled off toward the rear of the bar.

  “I saw you got arrested for murder. They usually hang you. How’d you get out?”

  Harry told Barton about being picked up in the bar.

  “That broad is probably the same piece that fingered me for a snatch. Someone saved me the trouble of settling scores.”

  “You have something to do with the plane that went down?”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “They have television in the jails, you know.”

  “Yeah. They snagged me. The one called Kurt and the other one who’s their shooter. I took the shooter out as we lifted off, but he got his gun pulled and iced the pilot. I dove as the plane climbed out.”

  “How far?”

  “Not sure, but a long way in the dark. Way I hit, it was probably sixty to eighty feet. I got a bruise on my side that shows.”

  “That would be one dark bruise,” Harry said, grinning.

  The word nigger came again. Barton slid off the stool. He walked to the group in the back. Instinctively, chairs slid aw
ay from one man, Toby.

  “Why don’t you drink that beer, my friend,” Barton asked, a shit eating grin on his face.

  Toby still bore bruising from their last encounter. Slowly he lifted the mug. It was apparent that for a moment he considered throwing it in Barton’s face but something in Barton’s eyes caused Toby to put the mug to his lips and drink. The beer flowed in one series of gulps until it was gone and Toby slammed the mug down onto the table.

  “See, ain’t it great when we all just get along?”

  Toby said nothing. Barton walked. Harry paid their tab and they stepped out into the heat of the day.

  On the way into town, heat mirages danced on the asphalt, giving the appearance of shimmering pools of water that vanished as they neared, remaining forever beyond their reach. Inside the Hummer the AC cooled the air, but if one touched the glass it felt warm.

  “Ain’t the fastest thing in the world, but around here a 4-by is our best transport if we need to get away.”

  “It’s a little obvious isn’t it?”

  “You be traveling with a nigger, brother,” Barton said, sliding into the vernacular of the ghetto. “This be white-bread country. You think that don’t stand out? If I robbed a gas station all the cops need to say is the perp was black. Wouldn’t need no other description, I’m probably the only brother for five hundred miles.”

  Harry laughed, both at the description and how Barton slid into ‘ghetto-speak’ when it was convenient.

  “You talk to Paula?”

  “No. Don’t want any chance of an electronic trace.”

  “Unlikely with a throw away. She called last night.”

  “When?”

  “After I got snagged. Left a message she tried you, when you didn’t answer she called me.”

  Harry scrolled through his cell phone. There was a dozen missed calls, almost one every hour while he lay out cold, beside a stiff.

  “Hell, she’s pissed,” he said snapping the phone shut.

  “Ain’t no fury like a woman scorned.” Barton chuckled.

  Harry’s tried Paula’s number. It went straight to voice mail. “Hey babe, something came up and I couldn’t phone. Call me.”