Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

52

The isolated telephone interface, better known as a tap, was a nifty piece of equipment; just a little box that clipped into the telephone line where it entered the house and allowed him to listen to conversations via his laptop. It was true, no one used landlines much these days, but Dwyer had the frequency sweeper and signal intercept pieces to monitor mobile phone calls as well. The only tricky part was placing the box. In days past it would have been a broad daylight operation with a team that could have posed as utility workers with dummy uniforms and trucks and the like. Now he was solo, and all props kept to a minimum, so he was left with the dead of night. He’d stolen out of a copse of scrappy trees and across a dirt-patch rear lawn in dark clothing and balaclava, the Ceska tucked in his belt, and went to work, hoping that Teague wasn’t on his game and that he didn’t end up with a hot round behind his ear.

Dwyer doubted he would. It had been three years since they’d met at the hotel bar in Dublin during the World Wide Detective Association’s annual convention. Dwyer wasn’t a member of the WWDA, but he often ducked into the city where it held its yearly event. It was as close to marketing as he could get in his profession. Certain members of the organization knew of him and referred him to their fellows who were in need of some off-the-books assistance. Carrolton, a longtime friend from the service, would then get the call and broker the meeting.

Besides, Teague didn’t even know it was Dwyer he’d met. The man had been under the impression he was Carrolton, Dwyer’s representative. There was a Carrolton, of course, but Dwyer had wanted to meet Teague himself while preserving his anonymity. What he’d learned in the sit-down was that the old Fed was big as a half beef, and he liked his whiskey. He’d drained a good four or five Tullamore Dews during the meeting, which had just been a general introductory chat with no specific job discussed. Dwyer’s experience was that that type of drinking, if it didn’t stay the same, generally only went in one direction over time, and that was more, so he imagined the old boy would be pretty hard to wake in the middle of the night. All the same, he had treaded lightly. He’d known too many lawmen’s wives who slept like sparrows and were plenty handy with the family shotgun.

Before long Dwyer had the line tap placed and was back in the car, which he drove around the corner to a place where he could receive the signal. He’d waited while the sun took its time getting up, as did the ex-Fed and his family. The program on his laptop chimed to life, but it was only to hear Mrs. Teague ring a friend for afternoon plans. Two of the four kids made calls, one about meeting a friend before school, the other about something that happened on a television program the night before.

Four bloody kids, Dwyer thought, no wonder the ex-Fed needed a few extra bob …

He’d been hoping to pick up a transmission that would mention Kolodnik’s location, a vulnerability, either right then or at some point later on, but he got no such break. It was with irritation that Dwyer watched the ex-Fed and his whole damned family set off for their day.

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” he said aloud, and realized that even a few years ago working all night and coming up with nothing would’ve rolled right off his back. He was getting old, he supposed, and still in need of that kip, too. But it would still have to wait. He needed to head out for the airport, which he’d do after a quick shower at the shite hole. He put the car in gear.