The prea.s.signed a.n.a.lyst listened to the call three times. She knew after the first listening this was the real deal, but she listened twice more anyway, just to be sure. Then she placed a call of her own, to Murray Longworth, deputy director of the CIA.
She didn’t know, exactly, what it meant to have murder and triangles in close proximity, but she knew how to spot a bogus call, and this one seemed authentic.
The call’s origin? The home of one Martin Brewbaker, of Toledo, Ohio.
It wasn’t the kind of music you’d expect to hear at that volume. Heavy metal, sure, or some angry kid p.i.s.sing off the neighborhood with raw punk rock. Or that rap stuff, which Dew Phillips just didn’t get. But not Sinatra.
You didn’t crank Sinatra so loud it rattled the windows. I’ve got you . . . under my skin.
Dew Phillips and Malcolm Johnson sat in an unmarked black Buick, watching the house that produced the obscenely loud music. The house’s windows literally shook, the gla.s.s vibrating in time with the slow ba.s.s beat and shuddering each time Sinatra’s resonant voice hit a long, clean note.
“I’m not a psychologist,” Malcolm said, “but I’m going to throw out an
educated guess that there’s one crazy Caucasian in that house.” Dew nodded, then pulled out his Colt .45 and checked the magazine.
It was full, of course, it was always full, but he checked it anyway —forty years of habit died hard. Malcolm did the same with his Beretta.
Even though Malcolm was just under half Dew’s age, that habit had been instilled in both men courtesy of same behavioral factory: service in the U.S. Army, reinforced by CIA training. Malcolm was a good kid, a sharp kid, and he knew how to listen, unlike most of the brat agents these days.
“Crazy, sure, but at least he’s alive.” Dew slid the .45 into his shoulder holster.
“Hopefully he’s alive, you mean,” Malcolm said. “He made that call about four hours ago. He could be gone already.”
“I’m crossing my fingers,” Dew said. “If I have to look at one more moldy corpse, I’m going to puke.”
Malcolm laughed. “You, puke? That’ll be the day. Say, you going to bang that CDC chick? Montana?”
“Montoya.”
“Right, Montoya,” Mal said. “The way this case is going, we’re going to see a lot of her. She’s pretty hot for an older chick.”
“I’m fifteen years older than her, at least, so if she’s ‘old,’ that means I’m ancient.”
“You are ancient.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” Dew said. “Besides, Montoya is one of those educated women — far too smart for a grunt like me. Afraid she’s not my type.”
“I don’t know who is your type. You don’t get out that much, man. I hope I’m not your type.”
“You’re not.”
“Because if I am, you know, that’s going to make my wife nervous. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”
“Knock it off, Mal,” Dew said. “We can wallow in your rapier wit later. Let’s get on point. It’s party time.”
Dew’s earpiece hung around his neck. He fitted it into his ear and tested the signal.
“Control, this is Phillips, do you copy?”
“Copy, Phillips,” came the tinny voice through the earpiece. “All teams in position.”
“Control, this is Johnson, do you copy?” Malcolm said.
Dew heard the same tinny voice acknowledge Malcolm’s call.
Malcolm reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather business-card holder. Inside were two pictures, one of his wife, Shamika, and one of his six-year-old son, Jerome.
Dew waited. Malcolm usually did that before they talked to any suspect. Malcolm liked to remember why he did this job, and why he had to always stay sharp and cautious. Dew had a picture of his daughter, Sharon, in his wallet, but he wasn’t about to pull it out and look at it. He knew what she looked like. Besides, he didn’t want to think about her before he went on a mission. He wanted to insulate her against the kinds of things he had to do, the kinds of things his country needed him to do.
Malcolm snapped the card holder shut and tucked it away. “How’d we get this choice gig again, Dew?”
“Because good ol’ Murray loves me. You’re just along for the ride.”
Both men stepped out of the Buick and walked toward Martin Brewbaker’s small, one-story ranch house. An even two inches of snow covered the lawn and the sidewalk. Brewbaker’s place was near the corner of Curtis and Miller, just off the tracks in Toledo, Ohio. It wasn’t rural by any stretch, but it wasn’t packed in, either. The four lanes of busy Western Avenue kicked up plenty of noise — not enough to drown out Screamin’ Frank Sinatra, but close.
In case things got crazy, they had three vans, each filled with four special-ops guys in biowarfare suits. One van at the end of Curtis where it ran into Western Avenue, one at Curtis and Mozart, and one at Dix and Miller. That cut off any escape by car, and Brewbaker didn’t have any motorcycles registered on his insurance or DMV record. If he ran north, across the freezing Swan Creek, the boys in van number four parked on Whittier Street would grab him. Martin Brewbaker wasn’t going anywhere.
Did Dew and Malcolm get biowarfare suits? h.e.l.l no. This had to be kept quiet, discreet, or the whole f.u.c.king neighborhood would freak out, and then the news trucks would come a-courtin’. Two goons in yellow Racal suits knocking on the door of Mr. Good Citizen had a tendency to shoot discretion right in the a.s.s. Not that Dew would have worn the friggin’ thing anyway — with the s.h.i.t he’d been through, he knew that when it was time to check out, you were checking out. And if things went according to plan, they’d isolate Brewbaker, bring in gray van number one real discreet-like, toss his a.s.s in and haul him off to Toledo Hospital where they had a quarantine setup ready and waiting.