Dark Angel: The Price Of Betrayal (7/8, Teen)
(Notes)
(Part 6)
The Price Of Betrayal
Clemente greeted the guard near the entrance of the parking garage beneath the Seattle Police headquarters. The barrier came down behind him and he slipped the car into an empty slot and got out. He left the shoe box on the passenger seat and collected his notes on the Berrisford case before he turned toward the elevator.
As soon as he reached his office, his phone rang.
"He wants to see you," the voice on the other end said without preamble. She didn't say who he was, or even give her own name, but Clemente recognized her as the aging secretary of Chief of Police Albert Sullivan. "Now," she added, and disconnected before he could say anything.
Clemente's brow crinkled. He dropped his case notes on the desk, hung up his coat, and went back to the elevator. The chief's office was at the top floor, with a wide view across downtown Seattle and Fifth Avenue. While he waited for the elevator to arrive, bobbing on the balls of his feet impatiently, Clemente wondered what Sullivan could possibly want from him. He'd been called into the mayor's office only the day before. They couldn't possibly expect him to solve the case in twenty-four hours, could they?
The secretary waved him in, glaring at him over the rim of the glasses perched on the tip of her nose, as if having to call him was a personal affront to her. He shrugged it off, knocked, and opened the door.
Sullivan wasn't alone; Captain Haskill, Clemente's immediate superior and in charge of the Homicide Division, was with him-as were two civilians dressed in neat, dark suits. Feds, Clemente knew the instant he laid eyes on them. His apprehension rose another notch.
"Sir? You asked for me?"
"Yes, Detective. Where do we stand with the Berrisford investigation?" The chief leaned back in his swivel chair. Everyone else remained standing.
"Well, sir, there are APBs out on the piano teacher and Rachel Berrisford. We found the stolen Town Car yesterday afternoon. Another car was reported stolen from the same lot, and we suspect Lehane, or whatever his name is, took that. I haven't seen the forensic reports yet; I just came in. I followed up on something else this morning."
Sullivan lit up a cigar. "Ah, yes. The supposed murder case of Lehane. Did I not tell you to drop that?"
How did they know? "Yes, sir, but-"
Sullivan straightened, waving his cigar around, trailing smoke. "Well, no matter. The Berrisford case has been transferred into the hands of the NSA. These two gentlemen," he indicated the agents, "will take over from you."
"But-"
"That'll be all." The chief dismissed everyone with a hand gesture. Clemente sought Captain's Haskill's gaze, looking for support, but she gave a slight shake of her head and a minimal shrug. She was a good department head; she'd probably already exhausted every argument possible. Sighing, Clemente followed her out. The NSA agents were right on his heel.
"Capt'n, what's going on?" Clemente asked as soon as the door had shut behind them. "Why are the NSA gettin' involved?"
"Berrisford's murder is a matter of national security," one of the men, wide-shouldered and a few inches taller than Clemente, said. His steely eyes dared Clemente to contradict him. "If that's not enough for you, Detective, we suspect Rachel Berrisford has been taken across state lines. That makes the kidnapping a federal case."
For the FBI, maybe, but the NSA? Clemente wanted to say more, but stopped himself before he could speak up. It would just be a waste of breath; he knew the futility of trying to convince them. Besides, they weren't the ones calling the shots either. The NSA agent was right about one thing, though: with more than twenty-four hours gone by since Rachel disappeared, chances were she'd left Washington State a long while ago. The bombing, however, that should still be his, shouldn't it?
"Berrisford was scheduled to appear before a senate committee," Captain Haskill said quietly, reading his mind and forestalling his protest. "The government believes someone didn't want him to testify."
Clemente's shoulders slumped. Yes, that'd take the case right out of Seattle PD's jurisdiction. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.
"I trust you'll hand these gentlemen all your case notes?" she added.
Clemente nodded. "Of course. This way, please." They followed him closely, like dogs heeling as he led them back to his office. Or perhaps they were afraid he'd hide or withhold evidence if they didn't keep a close eye on him.
o0o
True to her promise, Rachel shook him awake a few hours later. Before 494 was fully conscious, his hand had shot out and clamped around her wrist, instinct making him act on a perceived threat.
He let her go with an apologetic shrug as soon as he realized who she was, and where they were. She rubbed her bruised wrist, goggling at him, her eyes wide. "Sorry," he said weakly. "Force of habit. Next time, just call me." She was lucky grabbing her wrist was all he'd done. Last time someone had shaken him awake like that, he'd been ten, and it had been an orderly. The guy ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw. Ever since, nobody shook an X5 awake; they used sound, from a safe distance.
He took another good look at her. Her cheeks were rosy, and water droplets clung to her hair. "Did you go outside?" he asked, instantly suspicious. She offered a guilty little smile and self-consciously ran a hand through her hair.
"Yes." She gestured at the cabin. "It smells moldy in here. I wanted to get some fresh air. I didn't go far, just to the edge of the lake." She glanced at the window. "You know, I bet it's really beautiful here in summer."
"Hm." He wouldn't know about beautiful. "Don't do that again, he said. "Not alone. There could be wolves out there."
She laughed. "Si-Cade, do you think I'm totally helpless? When I was a kid, we often went camping. Wolves are more afraid of me than the other way 'round."
He shrugged. Wasn't necessarily the kind of wolf he was talking about. "Just don't do it again, okay?"
"Or what?" Her tone held a hint of belligerence. "You gonna tie me up again?"
He held her gaze. "If that's what it takes."
She winched, rubbing her wrists unconsciously, and he sighed. "Look, Rachel, I didn't like doing that, all right? But I couldn't trust you. I do what I do to keep you alive. Even if you don't like how I do it."
She looked away. "I know."
That startled him. "You do?"
She nodded and turned back to him, biting her lip. "I told you I saw the news last night. I don't understand what's going on, but I think I believe you. And you can trust me now; I won't try to run away from you."
"Huh." He watched her for a long moment, surprised by her admission, until she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He got up from the couch. "I think I saw a pile of firewood 'round back. What do you say we get a fire started?"
She wrapped her arms around herself. "This place could do with a little warming up. I don't get how you could sleep right here."
"I got a high body temperature," he said. "Cold doesn't bother me, usually."
The look she gave him was odd, and he snapped his mouth shut. She was just starting to relax around him, and the less he told her about himself, the better. "You hungry?"
"Yeah." She grinned. "Hot dogs and tomato soup sounds good."
He grinned back. It sounded damned good.
o0o
That evening, after another uninspired microwaved dinner, Clemente sat in his customary easy chair, the few lights that were on in the living room not enough to banish every shadow, and nursed his regular glass of whiskey. He took an occasional sip, hardly tasting the liquid, his thoughts occupied with a sense of failure.
They'd taken him off the case.
It wasn't the first time he'd lost a case to a federal agency, and usually, they'd promise to keep him in the loop, if only out of professional courtesy. The NSA, however, had cut him off completely. They'd taken his files, every last damned scrap of 'em. They'd stood to watch over his shoulder as he erased his case notes from the hard drive of his computer, and had walked out of the door without so much as a by-your-leave. And that chafed far more than being taken off the case itself did.
Spread out on the coffee table were Shaver's notes that he'd picked up that morning. Over the rim of his glass, he pondered the pages. At least he still had those, but what good they'd do, Clemente didn't know. He couldn't very well follow up on the Lehane killing. Not after the Chief of Police himself had told him-twice!-to leave it be; not after the Berrisford case, with its mysterious link to Lehane, was taken from him.
He glanced up at the photo of Debbie on the dresser, from the days before she got sick. Her portrait smiled at him, cheeks dimpling, eyes sparkling. He remembered when it was taken, several years ago, when he'd first made Detective and they'd gone out to celebrate.
He raised his glass to his wife's photo. "To protect and serve," he said, the words turning sour in his mouth. Today was one of those days he wished he'd followed in his father's footsteps and become a gardener. At least that was honest work. Whereas being a cop in post-Pulse Seattle-
A shrill buzz interrupted his bitter introspection, and Clemente gave a start. It took him a second or two to identify the noise as his doorbell; he didn't get many visitors since Deb died.
He put down his glass, padded to the door and opened it cautiously.
"Frank Davies," the wide-shouldered man on his doorstep said. "I'm-was-"
"Yeah, I remember," Clemente said. Though it looked as if the cut on the bodyguard's temple was healing nicely, there were bags under his eyes that indicated he hadn't slept much lately. "What can I do for you?"
Davies snuck a glance over his shoulder. "I... think there're things you should know," he said in a low voice. "Can I come in?"
"Oh. Sure." Clemente opened the door wider. "I should tell you, though, that I'm no longer on the case."
Davies barked a humorless laugh. "Can't say I'm surprised."
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
His curiosity piqued, Clemente preceded Davies to his living room, switched on a couple more lights and offered to pour the man a drink, which he declined.
"If you have decent coffee, on the other hand, I wouldn't object," he said.
A few minutes later, Davies was sipping from a steaming mug of instant. "Not exactly stellar quality," he commented idly after swallowing.
Clemente's brow drew down. "Did you just come here to insult my coffee?" he asked.
Davies grinned. "No. Sorry. In fact, I'm glad."
That caused Clemente's eyebrows to lift right back up.
"Means you're honest," Davies explained with an amused little grin. "I know a little of what a detective makes."
"Huh." Clemente settled back in his chair. "You wanted to know if I'm on the take? What if this is just the coffee for nosy guests, and I keep the really good stuff for myself?"
Davies smirked. "Then I'll have to take my chances."
"Chances with what?" Clemente asked.
Davies remained silent for a long minute. "It wasn't a random coincidence," he said at last, putting his unfinished coffee on the low side table. "What happened, I mean."
Clemente nodded. "I figured that."
"Mr. Berrisford, he was a wealthy man. Made his fortune in the genome business or some such. Made enemies, too. He was worried about his daughter, that's why he hired us, me and Sean: to make sure nothing happened to her."
Clemente could understand Berrisford's concerns; he'd seen the mansion. After the Pulse, when society broke down, there'd been a string of kidnappings, ransom demands, murders. Someone like Berrisford would be high on the list of any criminal looking to make a quick fortune. He certainly wasn't the only one who'd hired private security; Clemente could think of several former colleagues who'd left the police force and started to freelance.
Davies pressed his lips together. "Good job we did, too," he muttered, so softly that Clemente didn't think he was suppose to have heard it. He decided not to comment.
"So, what do you think? Competitor? Disgruntled employee?"
Davies shook his head. "No. Lately, Mr. Berrisford was more worried than usual. He didn't really tell us why, but Sean and I talked about it between ourselves. Did you know Berrisford was gonna testify for some senate committee?"
"No." Clemente straightened up. "What committee? Why?"
Davies shrugged. "Something to do with genetics and the military. I don't really know."
"Military?" Clemente repeated, astonished.
"Yeah. Mercidyne, that's Mr. Berrisford's company, worked for the DoD. He annulled their contract about a year ago."
"Huh." Clemente pinched the bridge of his nose. "That'd explain why the NSA has taken over the case."
Davies sighed. "You mentioned being taken off the case. You do realize it'll not gonna get solved, now, right? It's gonna quietly disappear, and Rachel'll never be found."
"I...." Clemente fell silent, unsure how to respond. There was something smelly about the entire thing, he'd known that for a while now. But to believe that the NSA, a government agency, deliberately would bury a case and let an innocent teenage girl vanish, that was a bit much to swallow.
"I don't see what you think I can do," he said at last.
Davies made a noise. "Neither do I." He rolled his shoulders. "I guess I was hopin' you could do, I don't know, something. Call in some favors, or whatever."
Clemente shook his head. "This goes all the way to the top," he said. "Chief of Police himself told me I was off the case. I don't think I could find anyone willing to risk their neck."
"Yeah. Figured as much." Davies scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed a hand across his face before he started to get up. "Well, Detective, thanks for the coffee."
"Wait," Clemente said, making up his mind on the spot. "There's something else." He point at the spread out pages that formed Lehane's murder file. "Lehane."
"Rachel's teacher?"
"An impostor." Clemente's mouth curled in distaste for a moment. "Lehane's dead." He showed Davies the photocopy of Simon Lehane's license, the one found discarded in his apartment, on top of the teacher's corpse. "This is the real Lehane."
Davies took the page and perused the photo closely. "That's not the guy."
"I know." Clemente paused. "But that-" he tapped the photo with a finger, "is Simon Lehane, licensed music teacher. He was murdered about three months ago. His killer's never been apprehended. And they didn't want me looking into the case...."
"Three months...." Davies muttered. "That's when he first came to teach Rachel. Goddammit, you mean that weasel snuck in under our noses to spy on Berrisford all along? He set the bomb?" Davies's face flushed with frustrated anger.
Clemente shrugged. "I think so."
"Fuck." Davies chewed on a thumb, thinking. "I did wonder if he'd gotten military training at one point. Something about the way he moved. But I never asked. I mean, c'mon, a piano teacher in the army? But, shit." His head shot up and he pinned Clemente with a look. "He took Rachel? They got her? The people that killed Mr. Berrisford? We'll never find her!"
Clemente offered Davies a supportive smile. "Maybe they don't have her," he said cautiously, letting Davies in on his theories. "Lehane, for lack of a better name, was reportedly seen leaving the city, heading south, in a stolen car. That car was later abandoned in a large factory lot. Where, we believe, he stole another car. It doesn't look like a special ops heading for base after he's done his job, does it? Assuming the guy took Rachel...." He left the rest unsaid.
Davies finished the thought, speaking slowly. "He could be on the run, trying to keep her out of harm's way." A hopeful smile spread across his face. It was obvious he cared for Rachel beyond her being the object of his job. "Sean said she was head over heels with the guy. Maybe he liked her too. How do we find them?"
Before Clemente could answer, Davies's pocket beeped. He fished out a cell phone and shrugged at Clemente.
"Sorry." Davies flipped open the phone. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment and sat up straighter. "Yes ma'am, this is Frank Davies."
Clemente got up, gathered Davies's coffee cup and held it up, asking silently if the man wanted a hot refill. Davies gave him a distracted nod, listening intently to whomever was on the other end. Clemente walked to the kitchen.
When he returned, Davies was wearing a big grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Guess what?" he said. "Rachel called Senator Hamm."
Clemente gave him a quizzical look. "What?"
"The senator's was a childhood friend of Mr. Berrisford's wife," Davies explained. "Her daughter and Rachel Berrisford practically grew up together. Mr. Berrisford was about to testify for the senator's committee. You were right; Lehane's running. They're up north somewhere."
o0o
Darkness crept into Sandoval's office, the single lamp on the desk not nearly bright enough to banish it. Sandoval paced in front of his desk, five steps to the left, another five to the right, back and forth. He was feeling too itchy to sit still. His eyes burned with fatigue; he couldn't remember how many hours he'd been up, but it was at least thirty-six. And there still was no trace of the transgenic.
The base was quiet; training had been finished for the day and the cries and shouts from the quad no longer drifted into his office. Manticore's troops were at chow, before they'd be locked up in their dorms and cells. As soon as Sandoval had been informed of X5-494's defection, he'd called off all privileges and downtime activities. Training, food, more training, and sleep. That was the base's primary activity, and that was all that was needed, truly. The transgenics should never have had the liberties of free time at all.
We've trained them too well, he thought. How else could it be explained that a single transgenic could elude the combined forces of the NSA, Homeland Security and Manticore's own security personnel for two days? Other than the stolen car, they hadn't even found a trace.
On the advice of Lydecker, he'd reluctantly split his forces, sending a team north as well as south. Neither had produced any results so far, and Sandoval worried he'd might have made a mistake. Perhaps, if he had concentrated all their efforts on the areas south of Seattle, maybe they'd have found the X5 by now. Deep down, however, he knew Lydecker had a point. Still, he couldn't very well concentrate his troops up north, either; it might just be what the transgenic counted on: that they'd believe he laid a false trail, and that the trail was real after all. Lot of desert in California and Nevada, easy to hide in.
Sandoval uttered a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand over his skull. His thoughts had been going round and round in those same circles for hours, and he was friggin' tired of it. He wouldn't know if he'd made the right decision until they found the transgenic. And there wasn't anybody he could talk to, nobody he trusted enough to let them in on his insecurities. He hadn't forgotten the threats murmured into his ear in that deep, anonymous voice from Washington. He couldn't appear weak or uncertain; he simply had to play the part of on-site leader in full control of the situation till the bitter end. It was the only chance he had to survive the disaster of a transgenic gone rogue.
He wrung his hands together, wishing they were wrapped around the son of a bitch's neck. He'd happily squeeze the life out of the creature that caused him so much grief. But for that, they'd first have to find him.
The sound of his phone ringing dragged him from his daydreaming of strangling the X5. He gave a start at the sudden noise so loud in the silence and nearly tripped over his feet as he swooped down on the device.
"Yes?" he spat into the mouthpiece, sending up a silent prayer to whatever god might exist that this was the breakthrough he'd been waiting for.
"Agent Sandoval."
Sandoval's hopes took a plunge; it was the voice from Washington.
And he had nothing to report.
"Sir...um...." He cleared his throat. He wanted to lie, to say they were close to capturing the transgenic, but the last time he'd tried that, the voice had seen right through him. Sandoval didn't think they'd let him get away with it twice. And since he couldn't admit defeat either, he was at a loss for words.
A soft chuckle drifted over the line, causing Sandoval's brow to crease.
"Agent, we know you haven't found him yet. I have some news that we think might help you."
"Oh?" The word slipped out before Sandoval could swallow it.
"Yes." Then all amusement melted from the voice as it continued. "The girl tried to call Hamm on the senator's personal line. It went to voice-mail, or we would've learned about it sooner."
Sandoval's heart skipped a beat before lodging in his throat. He dared hardly breathe. "Did... did she say if she was with X5-494? Where are they?"
"She didn't leave an exact location. Somewhere up north, is what she said. She also said she'd try to call again when she gets the chance. We're monitoring all the senator's incoming calls. If Rachel Berrisford calls again, we'll know the second she does. Have a team standing by for extraction. We'll have to move fast."
"Yes sir."
As soon as he hung up, Sandoval rushed out of his office and started barking orders. Up north, she'd said. Lydecker had been right; the son of a bitch was trying to get to Canada. If he succeeded, catching him would be that much more difficult. Relations between Canada and the States weren't as friendly as they once had been. No, they had to capture the rogue transgenic before he crossed the border. Whatever the cost. Nothing less than a team of X5s would do. And Sandoval planned to handle the team himself. He didn't have time for another screw-up.
(Part 8)
(Part 6)
The Price Of Betrayal
Clemente greeted the guard near the entrance of the parking garage beneath the Seattle Police headquarters. The barrier came down behind him and he slipped the car into an empty slot and got out. He left the shoe box on the passenger seat and collected his notes on the Berrisford case before he turned toward the elevator.
As soon as he reached his office, his phone rang.
"He wants to see you," the voice on the other end said without preamble. She didn't say who he was, or even give her own name, but Clemente recognized her as the aging secretary of Chief of Police Albert Sullivan. "Now," she added, and disconnected before he could say anything.
Clemente's brow crinkled. He dropped his case notes on the desk, hung up his coat, and went back to the elevator. The chief's office was at the top floor, with a wide view across downtown Seattle and Fifth Avenue. While he waited for the elevator to arrive, bobbing on the balls of his feet impatiently, Clemente wondered what Sullivan could possibly want from him. He'd been called into the mayor's office only the day before. They couldn't possibly expect him to solve the case in twenty-four hours, could they?
The secretary waved him in, glaring at him over the rim of the glasses perched on the tip of her nose, as if having to call him was a personal affront to her. He shrugged it off, knocked, and opened the door.
Sullivan wasn't alone; Captain Haskill, Clemente's immediate superior and in charge of the Homicide Division, was with him-as were two civilians dressed in neat, dark suits. Feds, Clemente knew the instant he laid eyes on them. His apprehension rose another notch.
"Sir? You asked for me?"
"Yes, Detective. Where do we stand with the Berrisford investigation?" The chief leaned back in his swivel chair. Everyone else remained standing.
"Well, sir, there are APBs out on the piano teacher and Rachel Berrisford. We found the stolen Town Car yesterday afternoon. Another car was reported stolen from the same lot, and we suspect Lehane, or whatever his name is, took that. I haven't seen the forensic reports yet; I just came in. I followed up on something else this morning."
Sullivan lit up a cigar. "Ah, yes. The supposed murder case of Lehane. Did I not tell you to drop that?"
How did they know? "Yes, sir, but-"
Sullivan straightened, waving his cigar around, trailing smoke. "Well, no matter. The Berrisford case has been transferred into the hands of the NSA. These two gentlemen," he indicated the agents, "will take over from you."
"But-"
"That'll be all." The chief dismissed everyone with a hand gesture. Clemente sought Captain's Haskill's gaze, looking for support, but she gave a slight shake of her head and a minimal shrug. She was a good department head; she'd probably already exhausted every argument possible. Sighing, Clemente followed her out. The NSA agents were right on his heel.
"Capt'n, what's going on?" Clemente asked as soon as the door had shut behind them. "Why are the NSA gettin' involved?"
"Berrisford's murder is a matter of national security," one of the men, wide-shouldered and a few inches taller than Clemente, said. His steely eyes dared Clemente to contradict him. "If that's not enough for you, Detective, we suspect Rachel Berrisford has been taken across state lines. That makes the kidnapping a federal case."
For the FBI, maybe, but the NSA? Clemente wanted to say more, but stopped himself before he could speak up. It would just be a waste of breath; he knew the futility of trying to convince them. Besides, they weren't the ones calling the shots either. The NSA agent was right about one thing, though: with more than twenty-four hours gone by since Rachel disappeared, chances were she'd left Washington State a long while ago. The bombing, however, that should still be his, shouldn't it?
"Berrisford was scheduled to appear before a senate committee," Captain Haskill said quietly, reading his mind and forestalling his protest. "The government believes someone didn't want him to testify."
Clemente's shoulders slumped. Yes, that'd take the case right out of Seattle PD's jurisdiction. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.
"I trust you'll hand these gentlemen all your case notes?" she added.
Clemente nodded. "Of course. This way, please." They followed him closely, like dogs heeling as he led them back to his office. Or perhaps they were afraid he'd hide or withhold evidence if they didn't keep a close eye on him.
o0o
True to her promise, Rachel shook him awake a few hours later. Before 494 was fully conscious, his hand had shot out and clamped around her wrist, instinct making him act on a perceived threat.
He let her go with an apologetic shrug as soon as he realized who she was, and where they were. She rubbed her bruised wrist, goggling at him, her eyes wide. "Sorry," he said weakly. "Force of habit. Next time, just call me." She was lucky grabbing her wrist was all he'd done. Last time someone had shaken him awake like that, he'd been ten, and it had been an orderly. The guy ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw. Ever since, nobody shook an X5 awake; they used sound, from a safe distance.
He took another good look at her. Her cheeks were rosy, and water droplets clung to her hair. "Did you go outside?" he asked, instantly suspicious. She offered a guilty little smile and self-consciously ran a hand through her hair.
"Yes." She gestured at the cabin. "It smells moldy in here. I wanted to get some fresh air. I didn't go far, just to the edge of the lake." She glanced at the window. "You know, I bet it's really beautiful here in summer."
"Hm." He wouldn't know about beautiful. "Don't do that again, he said. "Not alone. There could be wolves out there."
She laughed. "Si-Cade, do you think I'm totally helpless? When I was a kid, we often went camping. Wolves are more afraid of me than the other way 'round."
He shrugged. Wasn't necessarily the kind of wolf he was talking about. "Just don't do it again, okay?"
"Or what?" Her tone held a hint of belligerence. "You gonna tie me up again?"
He held her gaze. "If that's what it takes."
She winched, rubbing her wrists unconsciously, and he sighed. "Look, Rachel, I didn't like doing that, all right? But I couldn't trust you. I do what I do to keep you alive. Even if you don't like how I do it."
She looked away. "I know."
That startled him. "You do?"
She nodded and turned back to him, biting her lip. "I told you I saw the news last night. I don't understand what's going on, but I think I believe you. And you can trust me now; I won't try to run away from you."
"Huh." He watched her for a long moment, surprised by her admission, until she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He got up from the couch. "I think I saw a pile of firewood 'round back. What do you say we get a fire started?"
She wrapped her arms around herself. "This place could do with a little warming up. I don't get how you could sleep right here."
"I got a high body temperature," he said. "Cold doesn't bother me, usually."
The look she gave him was odd, and he snapped his mouth shut. She was just starting to relax around him, and the less he told her about himself, the better. "You hungry?"
"Yeah." She grinned. "Hot dogs and tomato soup sounds good."
He grinned back. It sounded damned good.
o0o
That evening, after another uninspired microwaved dinner, Clemente sat in his customary easy chair, the few lights that were on in the living room not enough to banish every shadow, and nursed his regular glass of whiskey. He took an occasional sip, hardly tasting the liquid, his thoughts occupied with a sense of failure.
They'd taken him off the case.
It wasn't the first time he'd lost a case to a federal agency, and usually, they'd promise to keep him in the loop, if only out of professional courtesy. The NSA, however, had cut him off completely. They'd taken his files, every last damned scrap of 'em. They'd stood to watch over his shoulder as he erased his case notes from the hard drive of his computer, and had walked out of the door without so much as a by-your-leave. And that chafed far more than being taken off the case itself did.
Spread out on the coffee table were Shaver's notes that he'd picked up that morning. Over the rim of his glass, he pondered the pages. At least he still had those, but what good they'd do, Clemente didn't know. He couldn't very well follow up on the Lehane killing. Not after the Chief of Police himself had told him-twice!-to leave it be; not after the Berrisford case, with its mysterious link to Lehane, was taken from him.
He glanced up at the photo of Debbie on the dresser, from the days before she got sick. Her portrait smiled at him, cheeks dimpling, eyes sparkling. He remembered when it was taken, several years ago, when he'd first made Detective and they'd gone out to celebrate.
He raised his glass to his wife's photo. "To protect and serve," he said, the words turning sour in his mouth. Today was one of those days he wished he'd followed in his father's footsteps and become a gardener. At least that was honest work. Whereas being a cop in post-Pulse Seattle-
A shrill buzz interrupted his bitter introspection, and Clemente gave a start. It took him a second or two to identify the noise as his doorbell; he didn't get many visitors since Deb died.
He put down his glass, padded to the door and opened it cautiously.
"Frank Davies," the wide-shouldered man on his doorstep said. "I'm-was-"
"Yeah, I remember," Clemente said. Though it looked as if the cut on the bodyguard's temple was healing nicely, there were bags under his eyes that indicated he hadn't slept much lately. "What can I do for you?"
Davies snuck a glance over his shoulder. "I... think there're things you should know," he said in a low voice. "Can I come in?"
"Oh. Sure." Clemente opened the door wider. "I should tell you, though, that I'm no longer on the case."
Davies barked a humorless laugh. "Can't say I'm surprised."
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
His curiosity piqued, Clemente preceded Davies to his living room, switched on a couple more lights and offered to pour the man a drink, which he declined.
"If you have decent coffee, on the other hand, I wouldn't object," he said.
A few minutes later, Davies was sipping from a steaming mug of instant. "Not exactly stellar quality," he commented idly after swallowing.
Clemente's brow drew down. "Did you just come here to insult my coffee?" he asked.
Davies grinned. "No. Sorry. In fact, I'm glad."
That caused Clemente's eyebrows to lift right back up.
"Means you're honest," Davies explained with an amused little grin. "I know a little of what a detective makes."
"Huh." Clemente settled back in his chair. "You wanted to know if I'm on the take? What if this is just the coffee for nosy guests, and I keep the really good stuff for myself?"
Davies smirked. "Then I'll have to take my chances."
"Chances with what?" Clemente asked.
Davies remained silent for a long minute. "It wasn't a random coincidence," he said at last, putting his unfinished coffee on the low side table. "What happened, I mean."
Clemente nodded. "I figured that."
"Mr. Berrisford, he was a wealthy man. Made his fortune in the genome business or some such. Made enemies, too. He was worried about his daughter, that's why he hired us, me and Sean: to make sure nothing happened to her."
Clemente could understand Berrisford's concerns; he'd seen the mansion. After the Pulse, when society broke down, there'd been a string of kidnappings, ransom demands, murders. Someone like Berrisford would be high on the list of any criminal looking to make a quick fortune. He certainly wasn't the only one who'd hired private security; Clemente could think of several former colleagues who'd left the police force and started to freelance.
Davies pressed his lips together. "Good job we did, too," he muttered, so softly that Clemente didn't think he was suppose to have heard it. He decided not to comment.
"So, what do you think? Competitor? Disgruntled employee?"
Davies shook his head. "No. Lately, Mr. Berrisford was more worried than usual. He didn't really tell us why, but Sean and I talked about it between ourselves. Did you know Berrisford was gonna testify for some senate committee?"
"No." Clemente straightened up. "What committee? Why?"
Davies shrugged. "Something to do with genetics and the military. I don't really know."
"Military?" Clemente repeated, astonished.
"Yeah. Mercidyne, that's Mr. Berrisford's company, worked for the DoD. He annulled their contract about a year ago."
"Huh." Clemente pinched the bridge of his nose. "That'd explain why the NSA has taken over the case."
Davies sighed. "You mentioned being taken off the case. You do realize it'll not gonna get solved, now, right? It's gonna quietly disappear, and Rachel'll never be found."
"I...." Clemente fell silent, unsure how to respond. There was something smelly about the entire thing, he'd known that for a while now. But to believe that the NSA, a government agency, deliberately would bury a case and let an innocent teenage girl vanish, that was a bit much to swallow.
"I don't see what you think I can do," he said at last.
Davies made a noise. "Neither do I." He rolled his shoulders. "I guess I was hopin' you could do, I don't know, something. Call in some favors, or whatever."
Clemente shook his head. "This goes all the way to the top," he said. "Chief of Police himself told me I was off the case. I don't think I could find anyone willing to risk their neck."
"Yeah. Figured as much." Davies scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed a hand across his face before he started to get up. "Well, Detective, thanks for the coffee."
"Wait," Clemente said, making up his mind on the spot. "There's something else." He point at the spread out pages that formed Lehane's murder file. "Lehane."
"Rachel's teacher?"
"An impostor." Clemente's mouth curled in distaste for a moment. "Lehane's dead." He showed Davies the photocopy of Simon Lehane's license, the one found discarded in his apartment, on top of the teacher's corpse. "This is the real Lehane."
Davies took the page and perused the photo closely. "That's not the guy."
"I know." Clemente paused. "But that-" he tapped the photo with a finger, "is Simon Lehane, licensed music teacher. He was murdered about three months ago. His killer's never been apprehended. And they didn't want me looking into the case...."
"Three months...." Davies muttered. "That's when he first came to teach Rachel. Goddammit, you mean that weasel snuck in under our noses to spy on Berrisford all along? He set the bomb?" Davies's face flushed with frustrated anger.
Clemente shrugged. "I think so."
"Fuck." Davies chewed on a thumb, thinking. "I did wonder if he'd gotten military training at one point. Something about the way he moved. But I never asked. I mean, c'mon, a piano teacher in the army? But, shit." His head shot up and he pinned Clemente with a look. "He took Rachel? They got her? The people that killed Mr. Berrisford? We'll never find her!"
Clemente offered Davies a supportive smile. "Maybe they don't have her," he said cautiously, letting Davies in on his theories. "Lehane, for lack of a better name, was reportedly seen leaving the city, heading south, in a stolen car. That car was later abandoned in a large factory lot. Where, we believe, he stole another car. It doesn't look like a special ops heading for base after he's done his job, does it? Assuming the guy took Rachel...." He left the rest unsaid.
Davies finished the thought, speaking slowly. "He could be on the run, trying to keep her out of harm's way." A hopeful smile spread across his face. It was obvious he cared for Rachel beyond her being the object of his job. "Sean said she was head over heels with the guy. Maybe he liked her too. How do we find them?"
Before Clemente could answer, Davies's pocket beeped. He fished out a cell phone and shrugged at Clemente.
"Sorry." Davies flipped open the phone. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment and sat up straighter. "Yes ma'am, this is Frank Davies."
Clemente got up, gathered Davies's coffee cup and held it up, asking silently if the man wanted a hot refill. Davies gave him a distracted nod, listening intently to whomever was on the other end. Clemente walked to the kitchen.
When he returned, Davies was wearing a big grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Guess what?" he said. "Rachel called Senator Hamm."
Clemente gave him a quizzical look. "What?"
"The senator's was a childhood friend of Mr. Berrisford's wife," Davies explained. "Her daughter and Rachel Berrisford practically grew up together. Mr. Berrisford was about to testify for the senator's committee. You were right; Lehane's running. They're up north somewhere."
o0o
Darkness crept into Sandoval's office, the single lamp on the desk not nearly bright enough to banish it. Sandoval paced in front of his desk, five steps to the left, another five to the right, back and forth. He was feeling too itchy to sit still. His eyes burned with fatigue; he couldn't remember how many hours he'd been up, but it was at least thirty-six. And there still was no trace of the transgenic.
The base was quiet; training had been finished for the day and the cries and shouts from the quad no longer drifted into his office. Manticore's troops were at chow, before they'd be locked up in their dorms and cells. As soon as Sandoval had been informed of X5-494's defection, he'd called off all privileges and downtime activities. Training, food, more training, and sleep. That was the base's primary activity, and that was all that was needed, truly. The transgenics should never have had the liberties of free time at all.
We've trained them too well, he thought. How else could it be explained that a single transgenic could elude the combined forces of the NSA, Homeland Security and Manticore's own security personnel for two days? Other than the stolen car, they hadn't even found a trace.
On the advice of Lydecker, he'd reluctantly split his forces, sending a team north as well as south. Neither had produced any results so far, and Sandoval worried he'd might have made a mistake. Perhaps, if he had concentrated all their efforts on the areas south of Seattle, maybe they'd have found the X5 by now. Deep down, however, he knew Lydecker had a point. Still, he couldn't very well concentrate his troops up north, either; it might just be what the transgenic counted on: that they'd believe he laid a false trail, and that the trail was real after all. Lot of desert in California and Nevada, easy to hide in.
Sandoval uttered a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand over his skull. His thoughts had been going round and round in those same circles for hours, and he was friggin' tired of it. He wouldn't know if he'd made the right decision until they found the transgenic. And there wasn't anybody he could talk to, nobody he trusted enough to let them in on his insecurities. He hadn't forgotten the threats murmured into his ear in that deep, anonymous voice from Washington. He couldn't appear weak or uncertain; he simply had to play the part of on-site leader in full control of the situation till the bitter end. It was the only chance he had to survive the disaster of a transgenic gone rogue.
He wrung his hands together, wishing they were wrapped around the son of a bitch's neck. He'd happily squeeze the life out of the creature that caused him so much grief. But for that, they'd first have to find him.
The sound of his phone ringing dragged him from his daydreaming of strangling the X5. He gave a start at the sudden noise so loud in the silence and nearly tripped over his feet as he swooped down on the device.
"Yes?" he spat into the mouthpiece, sending up a silent prayer to whatever god might exist that this was the breakthrough he'd been waiting for.
"Agent Sandoval."
Sandoval's hopes took a plunge; it was the voice from Washington.
And he had nothing to report.
"Sir...um...." He cleared his throat. He wanted to lie, to say they were close to capturing the transgenic, but the last time he'd tried that, the voice had seen right through him. Sandoval didn't think they'd let him get away with it twice. And since he couldn't admit defeat either, he was at a loss for words.
A soft chuckle drifted over the line, causing Sandoval's brow to crease.
"Agent, we know you haven't found him yet. I have some news that we think might help you."
"Oh?" The word slipped out before Sandoval could swallow it.
"Yes." Then all amusement melted from the voice as it continued. "The girl tried to call Hamm on the senator's personal line. It went to voice-mail, or we would've learned about it sooner."
Sandoval's heart skipped a beat before lodging in his throat. He dared hardly breathe. "Did... did she say if she was with X5-494? Where are they?"
"She didn't leave an exact location. Somewhere up north, is what she said. She also said she'd try to call again when she gets the chance. We're monitoring all the senator's incoming calls. If Rachel Berrisford calls again, we'll know the second she does. Have a team standing by for extraction. We'll have to move fast."
"Yes sir."
As soon as he hung up, Sandoval rushed out of his office and started barking orders. Up north, she'd said. Lydecker had been right; the son of a bitch was trying to get to Canada. If he succeeded, catching him would be that much more difficult. Relations between Canada and the States weren't as friendly as they once had been. No, they had to capture the rogue transgenic before he crossed the border. Whatever the cost. Nothing less than a team of X5s would do. And Sandoval planned to handle the team himself. He didn't have time for another screw-up.
(Part 8)