The Sign Painter Page 10

  “Too many. Bob, if you do this deal for a new employee, people will talk.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll work out a system where we can dock part of the cost from your pay. You drive a hard bargain.”

  She looked at him, seeing the gentle light in those clear gray eyes. “You’re a good friend, Bob.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She had to wipe her eyes. “Of course it’s a yes. This thing is beautiful.”

  “Well, that’s great. Don’t know when I’ve had a harder sell. Now give me the keys to that truck. I’ll send over somebody I can afford to lose to drive it back.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A half hour later, Paul received a call from Granville Burnes. He drove to the church and slipped into Granville’s backseat. Consuela Sanchez did not turn around as Paul shut his door and demanded, “Why am I here?”

  Granville was already moving. “The feds called Sanchez. They want a meet.”

  “They asked for us both?”

  “They wanted the church security chief,” Sanchez replied, “and that’s Granville. Then they asked for you by name.”

  “Which means they know I was asking around,” Paul said.

  “They most likely flagged our entry into the federal system, asking for information about the photographs Amy shot,” Sanchez agreed.

  “Did you get anything?”

  “Nothing useful,” she replied. “Nothing but the call.”

  They drove in silence and soon entered the high-rise sprawl of downtown Orlando. The federal building was a staid older structure, surrounded on all sides by chrome bastions of newer money and power. It was built with stone quarried from mines north of Tallahassee and offered a smug indifference to the newer structures. As Granville pulled his Mercury into the official lot and flashed his retiree badge, Paul said, “Maybe you should stay out here.”

  Granville showed genuine surprise. “What, and miss all the fun?”

  “Your pension could be at risk,” Paul countered. “If they see you as an opponent, they’ll come down hard.”

  “There’s not a cop in the state who wouldn’t back our play against these guys.”

  “Our play,” Paul repeated, liking the sound of that.

  “We’re wasting time,” Sanchez said.

  The Drug Enforcement Agency shared the fourth through the ninth floors with the other federal intelligence groups. This was standard ops in cities where Homeland Security wanted a direct presence yet no single task force required the expense of a secure location. The building entrance had uniformed guards and metal detectors. Upstairs the security was far more thorough.

  The fourth-floor sentry was a federal duty officer stationed behind a bulletproof window. The perimeter wall separated the elevators and exits from the offices. As they waited to be logged in, Paul explained the setup—how these top floors were completely isolated, and elevator access was limited to separate machines beyond the safety perimeter. How the space would be split up between the FBI, DEA, labs, federal prosecutors, and other federal agencies.

  As Paul spoke, the sentry listened and did not speak. But as he buzzed them through the heavy glass door, the sentry lifted the hand not pressing the button and pretended to adjust his tie. Then he touched the skin beneath his eyes with his two forefingers. Paul gave a tight quarter-nod, just enough to let the man know his signal had registered. The sign was intelligence-speak and came from a series of silent codes used by field operatives. It meant the agent was entering enemy territory. That every person the agent encountered could be the adversary. The threat was real and constant. The operative had to remain constantly on alert. Vigilance was the only way to survive.

  A stone-faced woman with an agent’s badge dangling from a lanyard around her neck led them down a long hallway and through a pair of double doors bearing the DEA shield. She pointed them to a sofa in the foyer and departed. She did not speak. Paul remained standing. He felt eyes on him from every direction but saw no one. He wanted to be on his feet whenever the adversary appeared. Granville Burnes settled into the sofa and appeared to doze off. Consuela Sanchez inspected the city scene beyond the window. They were comfortable in the manner of partners with years on the shared clock. Paul liked that. A lot.

  Finally, the double doors were shoved aside by a man shaped like a battering ram. His head was a polished dome, his mouth a slit as tight as his eyes. He had no neck. His entire body was one straight muscled line, from shoulders to steel-tipped brogans. “Which one of you is Travers?”

  Paul replied, “Who’s asking?”

  “Your executioner. I get half a chance.” He jerked his head. “Follow.” When Granville lumbered to his feet, the agent said, “Not you.”

  “We’re a team,” Paul said. “You want one, you get us all.”

  The man showed Paul a killer’s mirth. “That’s not how it goes.”

  “Actually, it is. And you’re not making the rules.”

  The man burned Paul a moment longer, then turned his gun-barrel gaze toward Consuela. “And you are?”

  “Detective Sanchez. I’m here as an official envoy.”

  “Says who?”

  “The Brentonville chief of police.”

  The agent clearly did not like it but said nothing more as he led them along a back corridor and into the regional director’s office. The man behind the desk demanded, “Who’s this?”

  “Seems the top regional cop wants a witness.”

  The regional director was a wiry man with slate-gray eyes and a runner’s build. “You Travers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit.”

  In response, Paul stepped over to where the agent stood leaning against the wall. Neither Sanchez nor Granville made any move for a chair.

  The director sighed. “Why does everything have to be a contest around here?”

  Paul crossed his arms. Waited.

  “Okay. Beeks, grab a chair.”

  “I’m good here, Chief.”

  “I didn’t ask what you wanted. Get a chair. You two, sit. Please.” When all four were seated across from him, he said, “I’m Ken Grant, special agent in charge. Guy beside you is Special Agent Tom Beeks.”

  The SAIC showed Paul the same expression he might use with a suspect, letting the criminal simmer in handcuffs, manacled to the metal table in an interview room. The bullish agent seated to Paul’s right held an altogether different stance. Tom Beeks did not so much observe him as take aim.

  Bring it on, Paul thought, and smiled back across the desk.

  The SAIC said, “Mind if I ask why a decorated former federal officer has taken such interest in our area?”

  Paul replied, “I was asked to help out with a problem the church is having.” He swiveled around to face the squat agent head-on. “You know the church. The one with the school that’s under a mile from the drug house you have under surveillance.”

  The special agent in charge countered, “All federal regulations regarding distance from such potentially questionable activities are being met.”

  Consuela snorted. “That answer is exactly why I hate working with feds.”

  “Then let me see if I can make it clear even for you,” Beeks snarled. “That place is totally off-limits. You come close, you—”

  “All right, enough.” Grant kept his voice calm. “We’re all on the same side here.”

  The agent snorted and managed to stomp his feet as he crossed his legs. “I came out of the field for this?”

  “Actually, Tom, you came because I ordered you.” Ken Grant gave that ten seconds, then turned his attention back to Paul. “We’re in the middle of an operation that’s cost us hundreds of man-hours. Thousands.”

  “An operation looking into the transport and distribution of uncut cocaine from Brentonville to other points in the US, am I right?”

  The two
DEA agents froze. “What do you know about that?”

  “I know you’re hoping for a break. Which we might be able to offer. But only if you bring in the local force.”

  Beeks had the bark of a pit bull, a constant rolling growl. “I told you having this meeting would come back and bite you.”

  “That’s right. You did.” Grant’s voice remained as unchanged as his smile. And as empty. “We have reason to believe that several members of the Brentonville force are on the take.”

  “That’s a lie,” Sanchez snapped.

  “It’s a convenient out,” Paul corrected, “used every time the feds want to keep all credit to themselves.”

  The SAIC gave that another pair of beats, then said, “Tell us how you came into possession of a photograph of our suspect.”

  “Same response,” Paul replied. “Share and share alike.”

  “Interfering with an ongoing federal investigation will cost you your freedom and this detective here her job. I don’t know how to make it any plainer than that.” Ken Grant rose to his feet. “Good of you folks to stop by.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Amy found exquisite delight in the simple act of driving home. She parked in the lot’s far corner and rose from the Malibu, hoping her daughter felt better. There was no in-between with Kimmie. She recovered with a child’s amazing speed, though, and once well, she didn’t want to admit she had ever felt bad.

  Kimmie squealed when she saw Amy through the open screen door and danced across the living room to announce, “Juanita is making my dolly a sparkly dress!”

  Amy paid the woman and thanked her and then shut the door and let Kimmie show off the new hand-sewn dress and the restored good nature. Once back at their apartment, Amy said, “We’re doing something special for dinner.”

  Kimmie grew still. “But Mommy, we had special yesterday.”

  “I know. This is another special. My darling girl is all better.”

  Kimmie remained concerned. “Is it too much money?”

  “No, sweetheart.” Amy’s eyes had been burning quite often recently. “Mommy has a new job, remember?”

  “With Mr. Bob.”

  “That’s right.” She picked up Kimmie. “Now close your eyes.”

  “But why?”

  “Mommy has a surprise.”

  “Is it a surprise for me?”

  “For both of us. Are they shut?”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “Okay.” Amy opened the front door and stepped outside. Kimmie giggled as the screen grazed her shoulder. Amy crossed the lot and said, “Okay, now open.”

  Kimmie dropped her hands. “What is it, Mommy?”

  “What do you see there in front of you?”

  “A car.”

  “Our car.”

  “It’s ours? Really?” She started squirming. “Let me down!”

  Amy did so and opened the rear passenger door to reveal a child’s car seat. “How about dinner at a drive-in?”

  Kimmie stopped in the process of inspection and looked around. “Where’s the camper?”

  “I traded it in.”

  Kimmie’s young face was not made for frowns. “But why, Mommy?”

  “We don’t need both, honey.” But her daughter’s face folded further, and tears started leaking. Amy knelt on the pavement. “Darling, do you miss the truck?”

  “Oh, no. I hated it. But where will we live?”

  “We have our new home, sweetheart.”

  “What if we have to go back out there again?”

  Amy resisted the urge to crush her daughter to her chest. “Mommy is going to do her best to make sure that doesn’t happen. Not ever again.”

  Paul held well back as he followed Amy’s new car. He doubted she had noticed him at all as she loaded up her daughter and drove off. There were certain moments in his new work that left him close to tears. Late at night, when his entire world seemed lost and his every day filled with lonely emptiness, he remembered times like this and felt there was genuinely a reason to go on.

  After the mother and child had finished dinner and returned to their apartment, Paul phoned Granville. When the voice mail picked up, he called the station and asked for Consuela, but the detective had already left for the day. Paul ate a salad standing at his counter and debated going for a run before the evening session with Lucy’s group. He had not exercised properly since his arrival. All this sitting around left him unsettled in his own skin, filled with restless energy. But Paul decided to check on the new shifts, as the daytime teams had expanded their reach by another block. Sooner or later, their encroachment on enemy territory was going to elicit a response. More than likely, that would come at night. Paul decided to walk the loop a couple of times, go to class, meet with Granville, then take a long run before sleep.

  The church’s small security office was on the opposite side of the gym and cafeteria from the school—close enough to be reached in an emergency, far enough away not to spook the kids. Paul and Granville used the office walls for their maps and team schedules, but it was too small for a gathering. The teams began and ended their shifts in the cafeteria, which made their shift changes less formal and granted the members an opportunity to socialize.

  The team members wore the uniform he had suggested—pale blue windbreakers used by the church missions and athletic teams, khaki trousers, navy caps with the church logo stitched in white. Paul wanted his teams to be immediately identifiable, and the caps helped hide their age. He didn’t want any local punk seeing the gray hair and thinking these were easy marks. All the teams had experience in either police or armed forces, many in both.

  The shift leader told Paul that Granville had canvassed the new neighborhoods, explaining what they were doing and why. Almost everyone appreciated the extra protection and complained about the dark stain spreading from the house on the wide, silent lot just a few blocks away.

  Most of the teams treated Paul as a permanent outsider. They acknowledged him, they accepted his instructions, and that was as far as it went. They might be fellow believers, and he might be there to help the church, but a fed was a fed. He was not one of them.

  The team assigned to the new periphery was the most experienced pair, a former police sergeant on the Miami force and a retired MP whose last posting had been the airbase outside Manila. Paul intentionally held back as they exited the building. Two older teams walked their routes around the church buildings, close enough to stop by the facilities whenever they needed. Paul stood by the cafeteria doors and waited until the others disappeared. Then he slipped back inside and stripped off the windbreaker and cap. Underneath he wore black jeans, a navy T-shirt, and black running shoes. He entered the night and pulled a black knit cap from his rear pocket and slipped it on. The men did not expect him to be there, and he wanted to keep his presence hidden.

  Just beyond the church parking lot, he slipped off the street and into a vacant lot. He held to the shadows as much as possible while he rushed to catch up. When he spotted the two men, he slowed and kept about fifty yards between them. The former cop and the MP ambled with the easy pace of professionals in no hurry. Their flashlights remained on but pointed straight down. Paul knew the former cop wore his regulation-issue Smith & Wesson under his windbreaker. The MP preferred a Remington the size of a cannon. Both men still put in serious time at the gun range.

  The night was quiet and Paul’s mind had ample time to roam. His thoughts returned to Amy and the way she had held her little girl before strapping her into the new child seat. The longer he observed Amy, the more he admired the woman. Paul had seen her obvious terror before entering the police station and respected how she had kept it together and focused on the job at hand. Like most people who had experienced the adrenaline rush of live action, Paul knew the real mark of courage did not come in being unafraid but in not allowing fear to dominat
e.

  He could see why some people, like Lucy, might suspect his motives. Amy was a very attractive lady. She was a long-legged blonde with strong features and a gaze of shattered sapphires. He liked the pale cast to her lips and the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. He liked the way she treated her little girl most of all. But he did not feel drawn to her in any romantic sense. He couldn’t say why that was, and as he raced from one clump of shadows to the next, he felt the hollow ache of suspecting that his ability to love had been stripped away. All he could say for certain was he felt about Amy the same way he would about a sister. He liked her immensely and was determined to keep her safe.

  The church steeple was occasionally visible through the canopy of trees and rooftops. The darkening sky was burnt umber, the air humid and thick with various scents. Somewhere close by, a family grilled steaks.

  The attack started with the fluid silence of a striking snake. Paul’s first warning came when three shadows separated themselves from a vacant lot across the street and glided toward the two men up ahead. One of the assailants clanked as he ran, probably a gun or knife striking a belt buckle. It was enough to spin the two older men around. Paul watched as the MP raised a baton, hiding the motion behind the flashlight that now lit up the approaching trio. The former cop joined his light to that of his mate’s and crouched down, taking aim.

  The three men were young and slender and overly confident. They spoke with a slurred rush of curses as they moved in, expecting the old guys to fold and flee. Instead, the attacker on the right, the tallest of the trio, was struck by a Taser, cried once, and fell. The two others froze in shock at the sight of their friend in spasms on the pavement. Then the smallest turned back and snarled, “You’re going down, man.”

  He was too slow. The MP had already closed. The baton struck the gun hand and sent the weapon careening off into the night. The youth cried out as the cop stepped in and hammered the third man with a right cross to the neck. All three men were on the ground. The encounter had lasted under twenty seconds.