Green Dreams, Page 8

  ***

  The phone rang just as he was about to walk out the door. He considered ignoring it and letting the call go to voice mail. No, it might be related to the upcoming stakeout. Such a call should go to his mobile phone, but he couldn’t chance it.

  “Hello.”

  “Where is it?”

  Jason’s blood ran cold. Time to pay the piper. “I couldn’t get it,” he lied.

  “That’s really stupid,” Hugo said. “We know better.”

  “I’m telling you the file was gone when I went to retrieve it. First my boss took it to lock it away. When I went that night to steal it the file had disappeared. I can’t help you.”

  “You’re such a disappointment.”

  Jason could picture the large man as he’d been the night of the abduction. Huge arms wreathed with tattoos. Sweat running down his sneering face. The brutish man who raped young girls. He refrained from spilling the words that he really wanted to say. Instead: “What do you know better about?”

  “The file is gone, and we don’t have it. That means you do. One more chance: Are you going to give us the file?”

  “I told you. I don’t have it.”

  “Expect a package.”

  The line went dead. Jason replaced the phone and slumped into a chair. His mind pictured the secure place he’d stashed the file. He closed his eyes. What had he done?

  ***

  The light inside the Cicero bungalow was muted by heavy drapes. One could have mistaken it for a night lamp rather than a beacon. The nondescript Chevy Impala pulled up in front of the house, careful not to park too close to the fire hydrant. In a three-year-old Ford Taurus halfway down the block, Jason and Evans watched with all senses heightened. Hiller and Gonzalez had the alley to the rear. There were seven other CID agents within two blocks waiting for the word to move. Cicero police were standing by to assist after the bust went down. Tonight was a big deal, and the IRS wasn’t letting this opportunity go awry.

  Nancy Evans spoke into the hands-free microphone clipped to her collar, “Subject has arrived. Correction – two subjects.” Jason heard the acknowledgement come through the miniature earpieces they all wore, “10-4.”

  Stroniff hadn’t said he was bringing a partner. Jason could understand the man’s caution given the people he was dealing with, but it made him uneasy.

  No dome light in the car. Total darkness. Stroniff closed the door after he got out with the delicacy of a teenage boy holding a girl’s hand for the first time. Kid gloves. No resounding echo to alert a neighbor. The other man’s actions weren’t as quiet. His door clunked shut and both men froze for an instant.

  Stroniff clutched his fleece coat around him and hurried up the walk. The wind gusted, and his comb-over flew into his eyes. Stroniff let it be, keeping his hands around his midsection where he held the bundle of cash. His partner followed.

  Jason had argued with Stroniff about immediately carrying the cash inside. The informant assured him he could handle the situation. The stakes were too big. Nobody would sucker him. Jason’s natural caution told him otherwise. He more or less trusted Stroniff. The men the snitch was buying from were a different story. The fellow with Stroniff appeared brawny even in his heavy wool coat. He must have been Stroniff’s insurance policy.

  The front door opened to reveal a dark figure. After a brief exchange, he let Stroniff in. His partner was forced to remove his coat outside where the shadow patted him down. A gleam of light reflected off something metallic that the man on the inside found and confiscated. When the door closed with all inside, Jason and Evans nodded to each other and the timer started.

  The seconds ticked by. After four minutes a Cicero police cruiser turned onto the block and pulled up behind Stroniff’s Impala.

  “What’s he doing?” Evans could hardly contain herself.

  The officer got out and walked up to the other vehicle where he peered through the windows.

  Using a different channel than CID’s, Jason was already on the radio to the Cicero PD. “Special Agent Ruger here. We have one of your boys disrupting a bust. I need to speak with Chief Howard now!”

  Static. Two more minutes. “This is Chief Howard. What’s the problem, Agent Ruger?”

  Jason gave him a terse explanation.

  Howard said, “Okay. Sit tight.”

  Jason turned to the police channel on his radio and heard the hurried call to the offending officer’s personal radio. The man was looking at the bungalow when his head snapped up. He glanced down the block with deer-in-the-highlights eyes and ran to his squad car. Jason wouldn’t want to be that officer in the morning when Chief Howard came down on him. In a moment the patrolman sped off, leaving the street quiet once more.

  Evans blew a huge sigh of relief and said, “One more minute.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “…four, three, two—“

  “Wait,” Jason hissed. “Another car.” His nerves jangling, he held his breath as the BMW passed their car and slowed beside the Impala. Had the driver seen the two of them?

  The BMW cut into the curb and parked in front of the Impala. Two men exited and headed toward the bungalow.

  “Uh, oh,” Evans said.

  “All stations remain in place. We have visitors. Repeat. All agents remain in place,” Jason said into his microphone.

  The men from the BMW separated and ran crouching toward the windows, one in front, the other around the side of the house.

  “We have hostiles,” Jason said. “Be ready to move when I say. Outlying agents, I want you on our heels when we go. Repeat. Change of plan. Outlying agents, you will follow us in immediately when I give the word.”

  Jason could see only the one man at the front window. In a moment he’d thrust it upward and climbed through. It had been unlocked. A collaborator inside?

  Three shots echoed through the crisp morning stillness. Two more answered.

  “Hiller! Gonzalez! Go! Go! Go! Outlying agents: go!”

  Jason and Evans sprinted toward the door. Evans battered the shot-filled ram against the stile above the knob. Again. Again. Panels cracked. The third blow shattered the lock rail, and the door gave way. Jason punched it with his boot and went in low with his Ruger drawn, Evans behind him, as bullets whistled past their ears.

  Chapter 18

  Stroniff and his burly partner, the two intruders who’d come through the windows, and three other men lay dead on the floor of the Cicero bungalow. All had slaughtered one another in the fierce gun battle.

  Blood was pooling everywhere and the CID agents had to be careful not to step in it. They still had a job to do and remaining outside the crime scene wasn’t an option.

  The men Stroniff was buying from were part of the Gianelli family. The Italian mafia had lost much of its preeminent position in Chicago in recent years because of the rise of Russian and Nigerian interests. Word on the street was that the Gianellis wanted to reverse that trend. The Stroniff connection was a major piece of that strategy.

  Speculation among the CID agents was that the two invaders had been part of a rival organization. At this point it was impossible to determine which one. From their looks they could be Italian, Russian, or something else. It was clear they weren’t Nigerian.

  Cicero police cordoned off the outside, waiting for the medical examiner. There wasn’t much doubt he’d pronounce the men on the floor dead from their bullet wounds. The CID agents who’d been the second wave milled impatiently in a small bloodless area. Jason and his team searched the house.

  Gonzalez found the bundle of money. His whistle brought Jason, who admired the stash.

  “Ol’ Stroniff, he was carryin’ a load eh, Jason?”

  “I wish he hadn’t given it away when he came in. A wad that size close to his chest might have slowed the bullet that got him.”

  Gonzalez nodded. “One big mess these guys made.”

  “That, too. I was thinking of the man. I kind of liked
Stroniff in a perverse sort of way.” And thank God none of the agents killed anyone, Jason thought. In this day and age, a police officer harming someone automatically kick-started police brutality allegations, regardless of the circumstances.

  Gonzalez stuffed the money into a bag after Jason signed off on the amount. “I’ll hold onto this, and we deal with it later away from madhouse.”

  Five minutes later Nancy Evans found the huge stash of cocaine they’d been expecting. Lines had been had been laid out on the dining room table from several bags for Stroniff to sample, but the bulk of his buy had remained hidden.

  “Have quite a party with this,” Evans said.

  “Between that and the cash, the department will be swimming in resources,” Jason said.

  Money and drugs confiscated in a bust were generally reusable in future operations. Whether the currency was used to front a buy or the drugs employed to set up a sting, the more CID had to work with, the more operations it could engage in without external funding.

  Jason called in another agent to give Evans a hand and returned once more to the bedroom he was searching. Another ten minutes and he was almost convinced it didn’t hold any secrets. He’d checked the drawers, the bathroom, the mattress, and the corners of the room for hidden floor recesses. Nothing here. He went through the closet item by item and was about to call it quits. One more suit coat.

  His fingers closed on stiff paper. Jason extracted it from the right inside pocket. It was a business card.

  For a moment he examined it dumbly because it made no sense. Why would a Gianelli have this card? On the back was a phone number, but it was the front which held his interest. He thought about the case file he’d retrieved from Steve Drennan’s office and had put away for safe keeping. This was an entirely new direction he could pursue. Screw Drennan and his masters.

  The business card in his hand was for the Executive Director of Gaiatic Charities.

  Chapter 19

  Franklin Toomey III leaned back in his plush leather chair with hands folded on his ample stomach to watch the attractive new intern filing reports in the bottom drawer of the three-tier mahogany cabinet in his private office. A hint of lace peeked out from above the waist band of her skirt where her blouse had ridden up to reveal the top of her panties. She’d only been working for the senior Democrat Senator from Massachusetts for a week and already he hungered for her. Older than she looked, but incredibly fit and pert with bobbed blonde hair, she’d been learning the ropes well from what his chief of staff told him. There’d been a brief issue about her age—he usually liked them younger—but when Toomey first saw Susan, that nailed her the job. Soon Senator Toomey planned to introduce her to an insider’s view of Washington, D.C. and what politics was all about. His excitement grew at the thought.

  The white phone on his desk buzzed and with a sigh he picked it up, still maintaining his advantaged view of the scenery. His secretary said, “Call for you, Senator. It’s Howard Gregory.”

  Toomey cursed under his breath and punched the flashing button on his phone. “Toomey, here.”

  “Franklin,” the voice on the phone boomed, “¿qué pasa?”

  Senator Toomey winced at the familiar greeting. He didn’t particularly like Gregory, the head of Animals Unleashed!, but the special interest group had raised over ninety thousand dollars for him in the last election. In order to keep the money flowing, he had an obligation to speak with jerks like Gregory.

  “How are you, Howard? What can I do for you?”

  The intern straightened and crinkled her nose in a cute smile at Toomey before she headed for the door. She’d almost made it through when he covered the receiver and called, “Oh, Susan, keep up the good work.”

  Susan whirled, blinked, and smiled again. It caused Toomey to lose focus. He shifted in his seat. She mouthed, “Thank you,” gave him a two-finger toodle-oo wave, and disappeared. There remained a faint scent of her perfume in the room. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  Howard Gregory had been saying something, but Toomey had no idea what it was. There appeared to be a question mark at the end of Gregory’s last words, so Toomey said, “Yes, we’ll have to consider that.”

  Gregory was silent. Finally, with a hint of surprise he said, “That’s great. I’ll start working on the proposal.”

  What did I agree to? Toomey wondered. “You do that, Howard. When you’re finished, we’ll give it our full attention. Oh, my secretary is motioning to me that my next scheduled call is up. Have to run… Right, you, too, Howard.” Thank goodness for that ruse; it was impossible for the person at the other end of the line to dispute. He banged down the phone.

  Until he resolved his lust for Susan, Toomey realized his mind and body would race in too many different directions, and more lapses like the one with Gregory would occur. Toomey had read about recent studies involving multitasking. They showed that people who tried to perform multiple tasks became less effective overall than if they concentrated on those several tasks in a serial manner. By attempting to multitask, a person’s mental responses slowed. In effect, multitasking caused stupidity. After this little episode, Toomey didn’t doubt the truth of that research.

  His body had about returned to normal, allowing him to settle back to reread the morning’s New York Times editorial, which had heaped effusive praise on him for “his dedication to preserving clean air,” when his secretary buzzed him with another call. “Who is it?” he demanded. Too many interruptions.

  “I’m sorry, Senator. It’s the same man who tells me each time that he’s Moriarty. I don’t know who he’s with.”

  He left her unspoken query unanswered. Toomey thrust the newspaper aside and straightened. His fingers trembled as he reached for the handset.

  ***

  Senator Franklin Toomey III was one of the most powerful men in the country. Because his party was in the majority, he headed the Senate Finance Committee, which controlled the purse strings of the economy. He’d held his Congressional seat for twenty-four years, was only fifty-five, and continued to maintain presidential aspirations. With a weak second term Republican in the Oval Office, who’d failed to assert U.S. dominance in foreign affairs, and—in Toomey’s view—who had botched programs to jumpstart environmental concerns, he had criticized the Commander-In-Chief as often as possible.

  When Toomey spoke, people listened, whether what he had to say made sense or not. That was the beauty of power. Anything one said could be spun to sound like pearls of wisdom. His supporters always agreed with his views while the majority of his detractors detested him. As a liberal Democrat he enjoyed the fawning attention of environmental groups—with whom his yearly scorecard always graded out at 100%, and with other influential special interests such as the powerful National Education Association. In fact, the NEA had voted him honorary teacher of the year, a title he wore as a badge of honor. That his support of the NEA’s positions kept the entrenched union bureaucracy in place, while doing little for the children they were supposed to care for, didn’t bother Toomey one bit. Power was power.

  He was most often cited for his advocacy of environmental and animal rights causes. He hosted annual fundraisers for pseudo-moderate groups like Sierra Club and highly activist ones such as Greenpeace, which frequently quoted him on their web sites. He’d spoken positive words about People for The Ethical Treatment of Animals throughout his career, although PETA tended to perform embarrassing stunts and make outrageous statements that alienated people. He remembered their campaign that likened the killing of chickens to the slaughter of Jews in Nazi Germany as one instance where he’d winced and tried to gain some distance from them. Through a masterful spin he’d done just that and ended up sounding like the Great Moderate Hope, all the while gaining greater support from PETA admirers.

  Toomey publicly separated himself from the radical groups such as Earth First and Green Liberation but provided wholehearted private support. They generally understood his need to project a warm and fuzzy
earth-loving persona as long as he helped their cause. Having too close an association with organizations, which some deemed as terrorist, was a political death knell. In return, the dollars flowed and Toomey’s stature as the environmentalist’s greatest friend and Moderate Incarnate was assured.

  The publicity surrounding his stance earned him praise and notoriety. It all came down to whether a person’s inclination was to the left or to the right as to the admiration or derision an individual directed toward him. The masses, now that was a different story. The great unwashed Center loved him. In the final analysis, however, it was once again the clout he wielded. Where Franklin Toomey walked, people stood aside, whether they liked him or not.

  Toomey had little to fear from the general populace, or more rightly—hah-hah, he punned—from extremists on the political right. He maintained a set of strapping, well-paid bodyguards and was judicious where he went. Why, for instance, would he frequent a conservative stronghold? Why walk in dark alleys? That was the reason his excursion today was unusual, though not singular in its occurrence.

  Following the brief call from Moriarty, Toomey made excuses to his secretary and shed his bodyguards. Rather than take his chauffeured limousine, he drove himself in the Lincoln Town Car he kept for private occasions such as this. Moriarty had pre-arranged three locations for their meetings, and Toomey headed toward the one his caller had indicated. The butterflies in his stomach flitted about and took on a life of their own as they always did when he met with the man. Normally, Toomey wasn’t prone to biting his fingernails, but with one hand on the steering wheel, he chewed the other to the quick at the prospect of the encounter. He recognized the nervous tick for what it was, looked with disgust at his fingers, and continued gnawing at his thumb. Have to get a manicure tomorrow, he thought.