Final Victim

Chapter 6

In the dream, he was on Thunder Mountain near Washington, D. C. He was trying to Rollerblade down the side of its rock-encrusted east face. His ex-wife, Claire, and his ten-year-old daughter, Heather, were watching him. The rocks were treacherous, and he was moving too fast. He kept going over one particularly steep incline and, as he did, he would look down the horrible rock-strewn face of the mountain and realize he was a goner. Then, as if by magic, he was back up on top, putting on the Rollerblades and heading off, gaining speed, out of control, just like before, the rocks making balance and purchase impossible.

The phone woke him up. He sat upright, trying to get his bearings. His bed was a mess, the sheets kicked onto the floor. He'd had better sporting experiences. It was three A. M., his sinuses were blocked again, and he had a headache. He rolled over, grabbed his pocket inhaler, and gave his sinuses a shot before he picked up the phone.

"Yeah…?"

"Did I wake you?" It was Awesome Dawson.

"I was Rollerblading."

"You were what?"

"Forget it. What's up?"

"I'm back in B-16 and that Systems Administrator wasn't fooling. I'm completely S. O. L. on this computer. All I'm getting is a bunch of `Connection refused' messages when I try to log in."

"Thanks for the update." He felt like hell and his mouth was dry. He guessed he'd been mouth breathing. He leaned back against the headboard and rubbed his eyes.

"I've heard the stories about you, Lockwood. They say you're a rule-breaking kamikaze. This afternoon, I was trying to con you; now I'm just going to ask you straight out-I want you to get Malavida Chacone out of jail to help us."

"Get Malavida out of the Federal lockup? That's all you want?"

"I got his whole file here. They just sent it down from Records. He got busted the first time when he was sixteen, and get this: When his hard-nosed parole agent from the California Youth Authority started hassling him, Malavida transferred his entire bank account to Donny Osmond at the Children's Miracle Network telethon. I love that." She waited for some response and didn't get one, so she plunged on. "Malavida's busted into just about every high-security computer in America, including the payroll computer at the Pentagon. I checked with a hacker friend of mine at Princeton. He said not just anybody can break into a closely guarded computer like Pennet. It's a science. Like you said, there are only a handful of crackers good enough to do it. Malavida is one of them."

"Forget it, Karen. I'm on thin ice with the DOAO as it is. The way I'm going, my next stop in law enforcement will be riding shotgun on a Brink's truck."

"Come on, they wouldn't do that to you. You're Customs' top gun, the old sky-guy."

"Your doctorate is in psychology, mine's in bullshit, so knock it off. To get Malavida out of prn, I'd have to go to an Assistant U. S. Attorney in the Sixth District in California, and I'd have to get this guy to write me a prn furlough request. The PFR has to state plainly why I need Malavida out. Illegally cracking into a computer overseas isn't gonna qualify. Even if it did, I'd have to make arrangements, in advance, to have him jailed every night in an approved lockup, and those arrangements would have to be approved by the Assistant U. S. Attorney. Then I'd have to take the furlough request to the same AUSA who put Malavida away in the first place. I'd have to get him to sign off on it. By that time, there're gonna be so many yellow lights flashing in the Federal prn system, they're gonna think there's been a nuclear war. SES is gonna find out I'm shopping this paper around, and if they don't shut me down, I'd have to get a court order written, and then, maybe, I get him out for twenty-four hours. And even if I could do all of this, it would take our clubfooted Justice Department a few years before the final paper is issued." He was wide awake now and sitting on the side of the bed. A long, thought-provoking silence from Karen greeted this diatribe.

"There's gotta be another way," she finally said, undeterred.

"There isn't. I'll see you in the morning." And he hung up.

Of course, there was another way, but if he tried it in his current predicament, he would be better off Rollerblading down Thunder Mountain. He suddenly wished he could talk to his daughter, Heather. He looked at his watch. It was after midnight in California. Claire would kill him if he called in the middle of the night. He looked across his neat, functional bedroom to his dresser where his ten-year-old daughter's picture was in a silver frame. It was her class picture, taken last year. Her smile was lopsided, trying to cover a missing tooth. He had joint custody but Claire had recently moved to L. A. She had been offered a vice-presidency and a big dollar promotion with the media-buying firm where she worked. He had not filed court papers to prevent the move. This act of legal generosity had cost him his weekend visits with Heather, but he didn't have the heart to deny Claire her big opportunity. He'd denied her so much while they'd been married. Sitting there at three A. M., picking at the same old emotional scab, he wondered how he had gotten so fucked up. He still loved Claire, and yet she had divorced him. He desperately missed Heather, only she was three thousand miles away. How could he have traded them away? He tried to convince himself that he'd had no choice; that events had demanded his desertion of them. Lockwood tried to believe it. He curled around that trash can fire like a beggar looking for warmth, but found none. Was that what all this crazy behavior was about? Was he so mad at himself that he was slowly causing his own destruction?

The next morning, he joined Karen in the basement in Room B-16. The VICAP packets were still hung up somewhere in Records and they still couldn't break into Pennet. The Systems Administrator had the host box saying "Connection refused" and dropping them back to their own system prompt whenever they tried. Karen was in a bad mood. Lockwood had been turning the problem over in his mind all morning. A plan was forming that, in truth, had more to do with seeing Heather and Claire than Malavida Chacone.

"Okay, look," he finally said, "there is a way I could get Malavida out. But if I screw it up, I'm gonna probably end up doing his time for him."

"We'll do it together," she said earnestly.

"That's a nice sentiment, Karen, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it, but the fact is, you're a civilian, and these guys can't and won't do anything to you. On the other hand, I'm dogshit on the sidewalk around here. All week, people have been stepping carefully around me. On top of that, I'm being periscoped by Kulack. So if anybody is going to get hammered, it's me."

"John, if you take the pipe, I'll take it with you."

"You really want to try this, huh?"

"Lemme hear and I'll let you know."

He told her, and when he was finished, she was smiling. "You can do that?"

"I don't know," he finally said. "I did it once before and nothing happened. But I think I got really lucky."

"Malavida's all the way out in California. How're we going to get there? We'll never get reimbursed for airfare."

"That's the easy part. We'll use the DOC's personal jet. His pilot is an old friend of mine."

"The Director of Customs?" She was shocked, but smiling. "You really do walk the edge, friend."

"Walking the edge is our basic Fort Nowhere operating philosophy," he said, and they shook hands.

Earlier that morning, he had called the DOC's pilot, Red Gustafson, in the Customs ready room at D. C.'s National Airport. Red and Lockwood had worked on a joint-op drug interdiction in Southern Florida and had become good friends. Red happened to have mentioned to him two days before that the Director's jet was due for an engine nacelle hot section sometime soon. All Customs planes were serviced at Lockheed in Burbank. Lockwood asked Red if he could make the trip that weekend, and if he and a friend could hitch a ride. Red had set it up and told Lockwood to come along.

Lockwood and Karen met Red at the Customs shed at ten o'clock Saturday morning. They walked through the humid heat to the blue-and-white Citation and got aboard. The Citation was the only jet in civil aviation that was rated to be operated with one pilot. They got in and buckled up; by 10:30 they were airborne, climbing to thirty thousand feet and heading toward California.

They settled back as Red made a banking right turn, leaving the National Airport departure pattern. The little jet hummed quietly. Lockwood could again smell Karen's perfume in the cramped cabin.

They landed seven hours later at Burbank Airport after refueling at Tucson. The L. A. time, was 2:30 in the afternoon. Red said that they would have to go back to Washington Sunday night. He gave Lockwood a rough departure time of six P. M. and a beeper number, then took off across the heat-shimmering pavement, looking for the crew chief in the Lockheed hangar.

They rented a yellow LeBaron convertible and put the top down. Lockwood drove onto the freeway with his jacket off. Karen had her head back, breathing in L. A.'s funky air. Lockwood had been stationed in L. A. for two years, so he didn't need a map. He used the downtown exit from the 110 freeway, on Sixth Street.

The Federal Building was between Fourth and Olive, near the L. A. library. It was a fifteen-story brown-brick structure with no architectural significance. The top three floors were given over to Assistant U. S. Attorneys for the Sixth District. Lockwood left Dawson in the lobby coffee shop and took the elevator up.

Harvey Knox was in a cubicle on the east side of the AUSAs' division on the fifth floor, surrounded by depositions. Short and plump, Harvey had one of those haircuts that have to be carefully arranged and then patted to cover a growing shiny spot. He was ten pounds heavier than when Lockwood had last seen him, five years ago. They'd worked an international business fraud case together. One of the U. S. Customs missions was to protect business from international counterfeit merchandise, and Lockwood had been working a big ring of counterfeiters selling knock-off Louis Vuitton luggage and handbags. This kind of fraud accounted for business losses of over three billion dollars a year and occupied a good percentage of Customs resources.

Despite the size of the operation, the case had ended like the last reel of a Marx Brothers movie. The Customs agents' inside man had notified them that the main counterfeiter, a Brazilian named Raul Ruiz, was supposedly at that moment standing in his East L. A. warehouse. Harvey and Lockwood decided to take the place down and make the arrest. They had everything they needed to take the case to trial, and the added bonus of having the Brazilian quarterback standing right in the warehouse with the offending merchandise was too good to pass up. Lockwood and his Customs team had gone in and made the arrests while Harvey was in a plain wrapper out front, writing the paper and identifying the suspects from surveillance photographs. They swept the place and lined everybody up, but there was no Raul Ruiz in the conga line. The warehouse was full of Mexican illegals. Lockwood had cuffed the Mexicans and was waiting for INS and an interpreter, when who should pull up in a rental car but El Jefe Grande himself, with two huge Latin bodyguards. Apparently, Ruiz liked gelato mexicano and had gone down the street for a cone. He saw all the activity in the parking lot and hit reverse. Harvey got out of the plain wrapper and ran toward the car, his coattails and comb-over hair flapping. He tried to reach into the driver's side window and yank the keys out of the ignition, but found himself looking down the barrel of a Ruger Red-hawk. The three-hundred-pound driver floored the car, but Harvey's sleeve got caught on the turn indicator, forcing him to run and hop alongside the rental, which was making a looping, tire-skidding turn out of the parking lot.

Lockwood heard the commotion and ran out just in time to take part in the Harpo Marx conclusion. He pulled his S amp;W long-nose and, with Harvey Knox hopping, running, and dragging ass alongside the car, Lockwood hit a Weaver shooting stance and fired one round. He'd never been a great shot. He'd been aiming at the driver, but he hit and blew the left rear tire. The car lost its rubber and skidded to a stop on the rim. The Customs team took everyone into custody. The shot had saved Harvey's life.

After he decompressed, Harvey ran around behind Lockwood like a puppy. He told Lockwood he was going to name his firstborn after him. Lockwood said, "Not necessary." Then the AUSA said he was going to buy him a trip to Hawaii. Lockwood said, "Not necessary." Then he said, "What can I do? You saved my life. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here."

It was then that Lockwood said, "Let me think about that and get back to you." Now, five years later, in Harvey's little cubicle at the Federal Building, he was about to try and collect the debt.

"Shit, Johnny, how you doing?" Harvey said as he clambered up from behind his depositions, briefs, and yellow pads. He pumped Lock-wood's hand endlessly and Lockwood grinned, glad to see the little attorney.

Harvey was still trying to hide his bald spot under strands of wispy brown hair, but the battle lines were widening, and Harvey and his hair stylist were losing.

"How you been? Jeez, good to see you," Harvey said. "I got your message on my machine you were coming. But it didn't say what time. You gotta let me buy you dinner… I'll call Ann."

"I have to go up to Lompoc tonight and I'm gonna try to see Heather and Claire before I leave; then I have to get to Burbank by six tomorrow to get my ride back to D. C. So it might have to wait."

"What's up?"

"I need a favor…"

Harvey grinned at him. "I remember your style, Johnny, so I hope this favor won't cost me my career."

"What I have in mind is a little slick," Lockwood admitted.

Harvey looked at him, shook his head. "Hey, you name it. I wouldn't even be standing here if you hadn't defrocked that Goodyear radial."

"There's a guy up in Lompoc named Malavida Chacone, a computer cracker. He's doing a nickel. But I checked and he's getting one for three on good behavior, so he's 'short,' less than eighteen months to go. I need to get him a coffee break parole for a few days, and I don't wanna fuck around trying to get a furlough request verified."

"You want me to write a Special Circumstances Release on a Federal prner?" he said, the smile drifting sideways on his friendly face.

"You don't have to do it, Harvey, 'cause I know it's kinda between the cracks… but I'm under a lot of pressure here."

"Why? What's the reason?"

"Classified. I need him for an interview on a very important case. I'll lock him up every night. But he has information critical to my investigation."

"Shit, John, that means I'll have to lie on the SCR, say it's life or death, or some damn thing…"

"That's what it is. I shoulda mentioned that." Lockwood grinned. "And you can't tell me what the case is?"

"It's a witness protection deal. I can't focus it any sharper than that. I'm really locked down tight on the talking points. But it's big. You're just gonna have to go with me or not. I can't lay it out for you, but I'll stand in front of you if there's a firing squad."

"Where you gonna take him?"

"I won't leave the state. Hell, I won't even leave Lompoc. I'll use a motel and have my Wit flown in."

"Chacone won't leave Lompoc and you'll have him locked up every night?" Harvey had an eyebrow cocked. He'd been in the Justice Department for seven years, and bullshit has its own special odor.

"He won't leave the motel."

"John…" It was said like a warning.

"Okay, look… I'll work something else out. I'll see ya, Harvey. You're looking tired. You should get some time off. Take Annie away, go drink a mai-tai under a palm tree." Lockwood grinned, shook Harvey's hand, and walked out of his cluttered office.

Harvey caught up to him by the elevator, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. "John, I'm not like you. You get off doing this shit." "It's okay-"

"No, it's not okay. You saved my life."

"Come on, Harvey, I took some target practice on a tire. The truth is, I was aiming at the palooka behind the wheel. I missed by a mile. You don't have to do it because of that. You want my opinion, you didn't even need me there. You were seconds from pulling that Brazilian sumo through the window and knocking his dick in the dirt. Least that's the way I saw it."

Harvey stood looking at him, shifting from one flat foot to the other. "Wait here. I gotta go upstairs and see if I can even find the forms," he finally said.

Lockwood knew that requests for a Special Circumstances Release from prn were like photographs of Big Foot-they were extremely rare and seldom focused. Very few got issued, because not many cases were so contingent on secrecy that the interview couldn't take place in the attorneys' rooms at the prn. The outstanding exceptions were usually witness protection cases, where the Wit's identity was secret or his life was in extreme danger.

When Lockwood left the elevator and picked up Karen in the coffee shop, he had the folded paper stuck in his pocket. Even so, he knew that unless he played it just right, the prn officials would cough up a lung laughing at him.

He had tried to call his ex-wife, Claire, twice from the Airfone and had gotten no answer. He stopped now at a pay phone in the lobby and tried again. There was still nobody answering at her rented house in Studio City. They got back into the LeBaron and headed toward Lompoc, about an hour's drive north of Santa Barbara. Lockwood found an excuse to get off the freeway in Studio City, allegedly for gas, then drove past the address on Moorpark and looked at Claire's small wood-frame house. He slowed and finally parked across the street. Karen watched, a puzzled look on her face.

"What's this?"

"I think it's my ex-wife's house," he said, never averting his eyes. "I haven't been here before."

"Claire lives here?" Karen said, and when he glanced at her, she instantly looked away.

"You used your computer clearance to go browsing in my DOR file?" he said, referring to his personnel folder in the Department of Records.

"Just a quick peek," she said, embarrassed, and then looked at the house, which was a duplex with blue siding and the curtains drawn. The garage was empty. He studied the house for a long time.

"I have a little girl. Ten years old, named Heather. You probably saw that in there, too. I don't get to see her much," he finally said.

"Why don't you go ring the bell?"

"I should call first," he said and accelerated away from the house. His departure had a slight flavor of escape.

Karen watched him surreptitiously. He drove stoically, but she thought she saw something glinting in the corner of his eye… She wondered if it was a tear or just his reaction to the smoggy L. A. day.