John Locke - Lethal Experiment
“Alison,” I said. “You know these guys?”
She looked at me through eyes of sincerity. “I’ve never seen them before. But Hector knows them.”
“Hector the bellman?”
She nodded. “This whole thing was Hector’s idea.”
“You’ll only get this one warning,” I said.
Alison looked at Quinn.
“You’d kill me?” she said.
“At first I would,” he said.
Alison said, “I’m not sure what that means, but it’s so creepy I want to amend what I said just now. Okay, so yes, I planned the robbery. But it was Hector’s idea to use these guys. He was supposed to rob you.”
We were silent a moment, and Alison said, “You understand, none of this was planned with you specifically in mind, right?”
“You’d planned it beforehand, and I happened to be the mark.”
“Right.”
“But I’m not the first.”
“At this hotel you would have been the first.”
“So you’ve done this elsewhere.”
“Couple of places.”
“Denver?”
“Not yet, but I was hoping to talk to Adam about it.”
Quinn said, “Adam?”
“Adnan Afaya, the terrorist,” I said.
Alison said, “Guys, I swear to God I didn’t know he was a terrorist. He approached me last time I was here. He wanted to apply for a driving job. I told him we didn’t have anything. He said the job wasn’t for him, said he was rich and the job was for his cousin, trying to get a work visa. He offered me a thousand dollars to get his cousin a job.”
“You took the money?”
“Yes. But I told him his cousin had to go through all the proper channels. He’d have to start cleaning cars, work his way up.”
“When was he going to start?”
“He started last month. When Adam—or whatever his name is—picked me up at the airport, he gave me some more money to get his cousin pushed up to driver.”
“You give him a time frame?”
“I said I’d do my best.”
“And he said?”
“I’d get a thousand dollar bonus if his cousin was driving a van by the first of December.”
I fi shed out my cell phone. “You guys chat a minute,” I said, punching in Darwin’s number. I went into Alison’s room, closing the door behind me. My new information had Darwin concerned. This was either the very beginning of a major attack, or closer to the end stage, and we had to find out which it was. I completed my call and opened the door. Quinn and Alison both looked up.
I said, “Alison, how would you like to make some real money?”
“It’s all I ever wanted,” she said.
“Then, lucky day.” To Quinn I said, “You packed and ready to roll?”
He nodded. We moved our suitcases to Alison’s room and watched her finish packing. Then we went back into the room with the dead guys, or as we say, “the Bernies.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Alison said.
I waited.
“What are you going to do with the dead guys? And when can we get out of here?”
“That’s two questions. But the answer’s the same: we wait for the door knock.”
Alison said, “I’m new here, remember?”
“What I mean is our cleanup crew is on the way. In addition to the bodies, they’ll eliminate all trace evidence. When they get here the three of us will move to your room and leave with our luggage.”
“No offense,” she said, “but you can’t possibly get away with this.”
“Why not?”
“Umm, gee, I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “Dead bodies? Security cameras?” She tilted her head, spread her palms out, gave me a you-can’t-be-serious look.
“The cleanup crew will disable the cameras when they get here,” I said, “and confiscate all tapes of the last twenty-four hours.”
She closed her eyes a moment, thinking things through.
“If you’re about to ask me how they do it, don’t waste your time,” I said, “Because I have no idea. I only know they’re clean freaks—not like your Aunt Ethel, who doesn’t like a messy home. No, these guys want to clean a crime scene like Rainman wants to see Judge Wapner. They’re abnormal, they’re sick, and look about as professional as Nick Nolte and Mel Gibson after a hard night on the town.”
Alison looked as though her mind was unable to process the thought. “Two guys are going to remove two bodies and clean this room of all evidence?”
“They’re really unusual guys,” I said. “I could write a book about them. Maybe I will, after I retire.”
Quinn laughed.
“What?” she said.
“I was just thinking about something that happened one time.” He chuckled again.
“Do I want to hear this story?” she said. I looked at Quinn. “This the one about the new guy and the maggot trail?”
“Jesus, guys,” Alison said.
Quinn laughed again, harder. “That one’s a classic,” he said. “No, I was talking about the 400 pound naked fat guy they couldn’t push out the window.”
“The one they had on his knees, belly stuck in the window frame, butt hanging out facing the door? That guy?”
“Yeah. And every time they pushed his ass—what’d they say? Sounded like the attack on Baghdad?”
I grinned. “Shock and awe.”
“Right. So they get a can of Crisco, then the new guy calls from the lobby, and they decide to play a prank on him?”
“The initiation ceremony prank.”
Alison held up both hands. “Please. This might be funnier in another setting, like—oh, I don’t know—the boy’s bathroom in junior high school?”
Quinn threw his head back and roared. It was good to see him happy; though I worried that hotel guests might report the unusual sounds.
After the laughter subsided, Quinn and I exchanged a silent conversation wherein I looked at him and raised my eyebrows and he shrugged in response. Which meant, “Do you think she’ll ask about Hector?” and his shrug meant that he wasn’t sure. Or didn’t care.
Alison opened her eyes. “What am I supposed to tell Hector? He’ll be calling me any minute now.”
“I think not,” I said.
She gave Quinn a look of disbelief. “You killed him, too?”
Quinn shrugged.
“I need a drink,” she said.
I went to her room and brought her a miniature bottle of vodka.
She took it, saying, “I may have touched some of the stuff in the fridge.”
“The cleaners will take care of it.”
“They’ll still have a record of us being here. You may have checked in with a phony credit card, but I didn’t. They’ll fi nd me and question me.”
“You’re staying somewhere else.”
“Oh really? And where might that be?”
“Don’t know yet. The cleaning crew will bring your key. Your credit card history will show you checked into that hotel today instead of this one.”
She looked at the door, as if mentally calculating her odds of escape. “Who are you people?” she said.
Quinn said, “It’s complicated.”
Alison finished her drink and placed it on the table. I said, “Augustus, tell me what you can about the Bernies.”
Still looking at Augustus Quinn, Alison mouthed the word “Bernies?”
Quinn said, “You know the show? Weekend at Bernie’s?”
She nodded.
“When we’re stuck babysitting dead guys, we call them Bernies.”
“Of course you do,” she said.
While Augustus picked up one of the Bernie’s forearms and studied it, Alison asked, “Why would Mr. Quinn know anything about these men?”
“They’re ex-cons.”
“So?”
“Prison tats.”
Chapter 32
Here’s what I know about prison tattoos: they’re almost always blue or black, since those are the easiest colors to make. The prison tattoo artist fashions a needle from whatever type of scrap metal is on hand: a paper clip, nail file, staple, nail, a bit of coat hanger, a piece of steel guitar string. Ink is usually fountain pen or ball point ink, but it can also be melted plastic. The artist usually puts the sharpened metal in a plastic holder like a ball point pen cylinder and attaches it to a small motor that causes the needle to move up and down. Once started, a hundred things can go wrong, ranging from misspelled words to hepatitis or AIDS.
On the bed in front of us, both Bernies had the letters T and S on their forearms.
“What’s the T and S stand for?” I said.
“Texas Syndicate.”
“You know anything about them?”
“One of the oldest prison gangs in Texas.”
“Hard core?”
“Very.”
Beyond the classic teardrops below the eyes, I wasn’t skilled at reading tats. Quinn, on the other hand, was fluent. I said, “What else they have to say?”
Quinn ripped their shirts off and studied the markings like an Indian scout reading a trail.
“See the fine lines and shading on the drawings of the women? Tells me these guys were inked by an expert. In the prison world, no one gets more respect than a skilled tattoo artist.
“Big deal,” I said. “What’s this other stuff ?”
“Prison tats are the first line of communication between inmates. A guy’s tattoos tell you the gang he’s affiliated with, his status in prison, the number of people he’s killed, the city or country he’s from, his marital status, number of children he’s fathered, the tragedies he’s suffered, his religious and political views.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” I said. “What are all these numbers?”
“The first part says they’re local,” he said. “Guy on the left claims he’s killed three people, guy on the right claims two. I believe them.”
“Why’s that?”
“You don’t want to lie with your skin,” he said. “Too many people want to kill you for it.”
“What’s the thirteen mean?”
“They use marijuana.”
“And you know that because?”
“The number thirteen stands for the letter “M,” thirteenth letter of the alphabet.” He pointed to the guy on the left. See the eight on this one? Stands for the letter “H.” Means he uses, or has used, heroin. Sometimes you’ll see a guy with an eighty-eight, which means “Heil Hitler.”
“Why do they want people to know they use drugs?” Alison said.
“It tells drug dealers that they’re buyers,” Quinn said.
“What are those numbers on their shoulders?” Alison asked, getting into it.
“Their prison I.D.’s.”
“That’s how we find out who they are?” she said.
Quinn smiled. “Exactly.”
I called Darwin, rattled off the prison ID numbers for him. After hanging up I said, “Darwin’s going to run the numbers and find out if there’s any connection between the Bernies and bombers.”
“And if there is?” Alison said.
“There won’t be. You approached Hector with this robbery scam, but Afaya approached you about getting his driver into your bus. My boss thought Afaya might be dealing with you here in Dallas, and in the other cities you work.
“Afaya did ask me about the other cities where I work. But he hasn’t said anything about putting his other relatives to work as drivers.”
“Not yet, but you can bet he will.”
“So what are you going to do, kill Afaya?”
“Darwin gets to make that call. But he’ll probably want you to go on about your work, business as usual, and he’ll put some people into your companies to keep an eye on things.”
“Am I supposed to help Afaya’s people get hired?”
“Again, Darwin’s call. But my guess is he’ll want you to get close to Afaya, develop a relationship, let him talk you into putting someone at most of your Park ‘N Fly’s.”
“What if I want to walk away?”
Quinn and I exchanged a glance.
“There’s no walking away at this point,” Quinn said.
Alison folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not going to sleep with a terrorist,” she said, indignantly.
“You will if you have to,” I said. “And you’ll give him the full treatment.”
“Once you guys leave, you won’t be able to make me do anything. I’ll get a new identity, go into hiding.”
“Alison, you’re in this up to your eyeballs. You’re going to help us bring down the biggest terror cell in America, and you’re going to do it for all the right reasons.”
“What,” she sneered, “Patriotism? A sense of duty?”
“That, and two hundred thousand dollars, tax free.”
“You’ll put that in writing?” she said.
“We don’t put anything in writing. But we’ll put the money in a locker for you and give you the key.”
“What stops me from taking the money before you kill the terrorists?”
“You won’t know the location of the locker until the job is finished.”
“What, I’m just supposed to trust you?”
Quinn said, “If you like, we could just kill you instead.”
“What a charmer,” she said.
Quinn bowed.
“There’s a more immediate problem,” I said. “The Texas Syndicate. When they find out what happened they’ll want to make an example of you.”
Alison’s face tightened. “This wasn’t my fault,” she said. “Hector’s the one that got them involved.”
“That’s not how they’re going to see it, Hector being dead and all.”
She looked around, started to panic. “I can’t stay here,” she said.
We were silent awhile, Quinn and I thinking it through, Alison waiting to hear something reassuring. Finally I said, “When Darwin calls to ID the Bernies, I’ll have him find out who’s the head of the Syndicate. I’ll arrange a meeting and see if I can keep you alive awhile.”
Alison had used many voices in the short time I’d known her. The one she used now told me she finally understood the danger she was in: “If you keep me alive and give me two hundred grand, I’ll do my part.” She thought a moment about what she’d just said, set her jaw, and nodded once, firmly. “I will. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“That’s my girl,” I said.
Alison pursed her lips. “Since we’re going to work together, I don’t have to keep calling you Cosmo, do I?”
Quinn laughed. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s his new nickname.”
I frowned.
“My name is Donovan Creed,” I said to Alison.
“I like Cosmo Burlap better,” she said.
“Of course you do.”
Chapter 33
The Control Unit of the maximum security prison at Lofton, Texas, was built four years ago, in response to the riot that ended the lives of four guards and twelve inmates. The unit houses 320 male prisoners under six different levels of security. The worst offenders are locked in solitary confinement twenty-three hours each day. Their cells are concrete chambers, with steel doors and a steel grate. Cell furniture, including the bed, desk, and chair, are comprised of poured concrete. The top of each cell contains a four-inch high by four foot long window that allows prisoners a view of sky and nothing else. This design has a purpose: without landmarks, inmates can’t discern their specific location within the building. Their one hour per day outside solitary gives them an opportunity to exercise alone in a concrete bunker. Each month they’re allowed one family and one attorney visitation. My visit was an exception, courtesy of Darwin’s connections.
