Delta Ghost (21 page)

Franciscus frowned, thinking.

“Were you expecting something more serious?” asked Cavendish.

“Yes,” said Franciscus. “As a matter of fact, I was.”
Like armed robbery, or drug dealing, or murder
, he thought.
Not this trivial nonsense.

He said, “Thanks, anyway. I’ll brief you fully in due course.”

“All right.” Cavendish hung up.

Franciscus pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
Damn.
He was no closer.

Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his mind.

He focussed on it, trying to tease it out without chasing it away.

Something about one of his visits with Flowers in San Antonio. Some... memory.

It clicked into place.

Franciscus grabbed the poster of Clune he’d taken off the wall in the courthouse. He stared at it.

Yes. It was the same guy.

He’d seen the kid, through the lowered window of Flowers’ car, when Flowers had come to his office in San Antonio. The kid had been Flowers’ driver.

Which suggested, despite his ridiculously low-key rap sheet in the UK, that there was more to him than there appeared. He’d infiltrated Flowers’ operation. Which meant he’d infiltrated the Delta project.

MI6, perhaps. Or maybe the Feds or the DEA had recruited him.

Whoever he was working for, and however much he’d uncovered, he needed to be found.

And, probably, silenced.

T
hey reached Central Park and Venn slowed his trot to a walk, forcing Harmony and the kid to do the same.

A summer afternoon, and the park was crowded with joggers and icecream-wielding children tagging behind chatting moms and lunching businesspeople with a sandwich in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

Venn led them across a lawn to a bench and let Clune sag onto it. Harmony stood beside Venn, gazing down at the kid.

“Intense,” she said. It was the first and only reference she made to what had just gone down in Harlem.

Venn said: “Take us through it, son.”

He listened while Clune relayed the sequence of events, interrupting occasionally to clarify a point. The safe house had been compromised, somehow. Maybe somebody living in the apartment block had been a contact of Salazar’s and tipped him off. Maybe somebody on the street had seen Walter and Clune going in and had recognized the kid from the posters adorning the city.

It didn’t really matter. Walter was dead, and Salazar was closing in.

Venn stared off at the skyline on the perimeter of the park, at the skyscrapers that were the only reminder that this oasis of green was smack bang in the middle of a metropolis.

Beside him, Harmony said: “We gotta get the fuck out.”

“Yeah.”

“Out of the city, I mean.”

“I know.” The Harlem shootout was a major event. Somebody there must have captured it on a cell phone, and it was probably going viral on YouTube at that very moment. There were numerous dead Mexicans at the scene, and the people who’d killed them had fled. Sooner or later, Venn and Harmony – and Clune – would be identified, and found, and hauled in. Venn could probably finesse his way out of the situation, and bring Harmony with him. But it would leave Clune in the hands of the mainstream NYPD, and that would lead to delays.

And besides, Venn still regarded this case as his own. It had a political dimension. He was the lead detective in a division tasked with investigating such matters. He was damned if he was going to hand it all over to a bureaucratic system that put more stock in the process than the results.

A thought struck him.

“Clune,” he said. “You ever hear of this lawyer guy of O’Dell’s? Peter Franciscus?”

“Only what you’ve told me about him,” said Clune. His voice was still shaky, as if he hadn’t yet processed what he’d been through.

Venn took out his phone and found the website of Franciscus’ law firm. It was simple, clean, but had a picture of Franciscus, looking serious and professional.

He showed it to Clune.

The kid glanced at it, looked away. Then did a double take.

“Yeah,” he said.

He grabbed the phone from Venn, held it close to his face. His eyes widened.

He looked up at Venn.

“I drove Flowers to him a couple of times. Back in San Antonio.”

Venn said: “You remember where?”

Clune’s face worked. “Shit, I don’t know... there were so many runs, so many jobs...”

He looked up again, his expression exhausted, defeated.

“Sorry. I just can’t remember.”

Venn watched him for a few seconds. Then he stepped forward and hunkered down and crouched with his face a handful of inches from Clune’s.

“Listen, kid. My partner, Walter Sickert, is dead. Now he was a slob, and a psycho, but he was a good cop. And a good man. You’re not responsible for his death. You’re a civilian. But you’re at the center of all of this, and you have knowledge that may help take down the people who
are
responsible.”

Venn leaned in closer, so that the kid flinched.

“Furthermore, you have a good memory. You’re a dickhead in every other way, but your powers of recall and of observation are excellent. You noted my significant other’s photo on my desk, and used that to follow her to my home. You’ve given good descriptions of the people and events you’ve encountered thus far. So...
try
. Try to remember where, exactly, you drove Flowers in order to meet this man, Franciscus. Try to visualize it.”

The kid stared back at him.

Venn glanced at Harmony, standing over them.

“Otherwise, I may need to ask my partner here to prompt your memory. Stimulate those neuronal connections a little. And believe me, if you think
Walter
was nuts... you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Venn stood up.

Clune pressed his palms over his face. He rocked on the bench, back and forth.

At last he lifted his hands away. He looked at Venn.

“Yes,” he said. “I remember.”

“You remember what?”

“Where I saw this man. Franciscus. It was at an office building, some distance to the north-west of San Antonio.”

“You think you can find it again?”

After a few moments’ pause, Clune said: “Yes.”

Venn beckoned him up with his hand. “Come on.”

Harmony said, “I know I said we should get out of town, but...
Texas
?”

“Yes,” said Venn.

*

A
s they strode through the park, Venn made a call.

Captain Kang answered quietly, though he’d clearly recognized the caller ID. “Joe. What the hell are you playing at? I told you to –”

“Cap, I need you to put out smoke,” said Venn. “Delay stuff.”

“What? What stuff?”

“You’ve heard about the shootout in Harlem.”

“Yes. Was that –”

“It was me and Harmony. Cap, there’s major politics in this. I feel it. I know you told me to back off. But I have a lead so critical, it would screw everything up if they hauled me in now. Just buy me some time. Block any search for me. Thirty-six hours. After that, I’ll come in. I’ll face whatever it is I have to. But trust me on this.”

Venn paused, then played the ambition card, the one he knew Kang valued most of all.

“If I pull this off, you’ll be riding high. You’ll be fighting off the hordes of Congressmen wanting to pin a medal to your ass. It’ll mean a ton of increased funding for our division, major respect for our achievements.”

Kang took a few seconds to respond.

“Joe,” he said. “I recognize bullshit. I’m an appointee. I’m part of the system. Don’t try and schmooze me. Don’t slather it on. It isn’t your style.”

“But –”

“But, I’m willing to give you a pass on this. God knows why. Maybe because I gave you this job, and if you go down, it makes me look like a douchebag. So, if you’re going to screw up, you may as well do so spectacularly. At least I’ll get headlines from it in the New York Times.”

Venn said: “So you’ll head things off for thirty-six hours?”

He heard Kang sigh down the line. “Yes, Joe. Tell you what. I’ll throw in a bonus four hours. How about that? Forty hours for you to prove I wasn’t totally insane to hire you.”

“Okay, Cap.”

Kang started to say, “Hey. Do you have that British guy –” but Venn killed the call.

He looked at Harmony. “San Antonio.”

“Airplane?”

Venn shook his head. “The cops at all of the ports will be looking out for Clune. So will airport security. We rent a car.”

Harmony said, “San Antonio is –”

“Thirty hours away. We better get a move on.”

T
hey crossed into New Jersey on the I-78 at a little after two p.m.

Thirty hours, without stopping for longer than it took to refuel, take a pee or load up with snacks, would mean they’d reach San Antonio at around eight tomorrow evening. Assuming Captain Kang honored his promise and managed to persuade the NYPD not to alert the Feds and start a manhunt for Venn and Clune and Harmony.

Venn was behind the wheel, Harmony beside him. He’d chosen a silver Subaru Impreza sedan for the speed. At the car rental place on Canal Street he’d told the other two to wait outside. Clune looked a little rough round the edges and it was possible that the rental guy would suspect that this was a gang of fugitives. Venn used his credit card to pay. There was little point in trying to mask his tracks. Again, either Kang came through or he didn’t.

Clune had said the office where he’d taken Flowers to meet Franciscus had been part of a lot a few miles northwest of San Antonio. Both times, he’d been told to wait in the car while Flowers went inside. And on both occasions, he’d seen Franciscus at the door, greeting Flowers and then seeing him out.

It was possible, Venn knew, that they’d find nothing at the office. No clue as to who Franciscus really was, or what his connection was with Flowers. But it was worth a try, because Venn didn’t have any other leads.

*

B
y the time they reached Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, the somber silence in the car had become oppressive. Venn had been flicking through the news channels on the radio for something to do, but now he found a talk station and left the dial there.

From the backseat, Clune piped up: “Hey, Lieutenant. How about some music?”

“Get some sleep while you can, kid. It’s a long journey.”

“I’m not tired. Too buzzed.” After a moment, Clune said, “What kind of music do you like?”

“What?” Venn shook his head. “I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.”

“Come on. Classic rock? Grunge? You’re just about old enough to have been into hair metal.”

“I said –”

“Humor me, okay? I’ll shut up after that.”

Venn sighed. “Country and western.”

“Bollocks.” Clune laughed. “There’s no way you listen to that stuff.”

Beside Venn, Harmony rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” Clune persisted. “You’re a rock type of guy. Give me a clue.”

Harmony said, “Just tell him something, okay? I can’t take thirty hours of this.”

“Bruce Springsteen,” muttered Venn.

“Yes! Knew it!” crowed Clune, bouncing in the seat like an excitable little boy. “You ever see him live?”

“No.”

“I have. Three times so far. Keeps getting better and better.”

He launched into an attempt at a discussion with Venn, asking him which albums he preferred, which band lineup he thought worked the best. Venn parried the questions with grunts and silences. Clune didn’t seem to mind, and eventually lapsed into a monologue about the performers Springsteen had been influenced by and had in turn influenced.

After twenty minutes of the babbling from the backseat, Harmony said, “You think it’ll wind down like clockwork or something? Or its voice will wear out? Or maybe I should just stuff a rag in its mouth?”

As if taking his cue, Clune said: “How about you, Detective Jones? What music do you –”

She didn’t say anything, just turned around and stared at him. Venn didn’t catch her expression, but whatever it was, it was enough to make Clune shut his mouth abruptly.

It didn’t last.

*

J
ust across the Virginia border they stopped for gas and to stretch their legs. The sun was setting, but Venn felt the day’s heat still lingering as he stepped out of the car’s airconditioned interior.

He’d called Beth earlier, to say he had to go out of town to follow up a lead and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. She was on call at the hospital and wouldn’t be home tonight either. He’d had to disappear like this a few times before, and his work was sensitive enough that Beth understood not to ask where he was going, though he’d usually tell her afterwards.

Venn didn’t mention the shootout in Harlem, or the fact that his Mustang was a writeoff. She’d only worry that he was in danger.

While Venn filled the gas tank, Harmony and the kid went into the store to get something to eat. They emerged with arms loaded with the kind of crap you inevitably got at this kind of place: potato chips, jerky, soda, and sandwiches that looked as plastic as the packaging they came in.

Harmony took a turn at the wheel. They’d just pulled out onto the interstate again when Venn wrinkled his nose.

He turned, saw Clune lighting up a cigarette.

“Hey.
Hey.
” Venn reached over and plucked it out of the kid’s fingers and threw it out the window. “Cut that shit out.”

“But there isn’t time to stop,” said Clune. “When else am I going to –”

“You can wait till we get to Texas.”

“Ah, come on, Lieutenant. Have a heart.” The kid’s tone was whiny. “I’m under a lot of stress here.”

Venn stared at him in fascination.

“You know something, kid?” he said. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“Arse.”

“What?”

“In Britain we say
arse
,” Clune said brightly.

“It’s
my
American ass that’s hurting.” Venn considered for a moment. Then: “
One
cigarette. Just one.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”