Mental State, page 8
“Did this dude off your brother?”
“I don’t know. It’s what I’ve got right now.”
“I’m on it.”
“Keep this on the QT?”
“I’m not telling, homes. Be safe out there, man.” Vasquez hung up.
Ninety seconds later, the Blackberry buzzed.
Royce turned to the driver. “Okay, ready. Forty-two-fifty South Cottage Grove Avenue.”
CHAPTER 16
The Uber turned south on Cottage Grove Avenue toward 42nd Street. Within an instant, the neighborhood turned. On the campus, the landscape was dense and lush and well taken care of; beyond it, the environment was barren and scrub. Within a block, the sidewalks were cracked, the fences chain link instead of wrought iron, and the flowers were gone from window boxes. The streets were more crowded, especially with young men, which suggested the unemployment rate was higher than the official figures for the area. Walking around Kenwood or on the Rockefeller campus, one could be lulled into a false sense that the South Side of Chicago was a socially and ethnically integrated paradise on Earth. But here, in the few blocks between his brother’s tree-lined neighborhood and the leafy campus and its idealistic undergraduates, the gritty reality of racial and economic segregation came into full view.
As he drove past the shrimp shacks and fortress-like liquor stores, it was obvious that to a Bronzeviller, Kenwood was a pot of gold to be plucked. If the brick mansions full of fancy things were based on institutional racism and a legacy of oppression and slavery, then the whole thing was illegitimate. It was easy to imagine the gangbangers convincing themselves they were modern-day Robin Hoods.
Murder was another matter, of course, and Royce had to plumb the depths of his imagination to fathom a justification for it. If Marcus blamed Alex for exiling him back to Bronzeville and ruining his and his extended family’s lives, he might lash out in desperation. Maybe the murder was simply a scream from Bronzeville to the world about the state of things. A painful and costly scream for help.
The Blackberry buzzed. The Uber driver’s eyes met his in the rearview as he answered the call.
“Agent Johnson, my name is Mark Drier, and I’m the Midwest supervisor for national security investigations. How are you doing today?”
“Great. I’m working. What can I do for you, Agent Drier?”
“I hear you are working a case involving a live NSL in my jurisdiction, and I was hoping we could talk about it. “
Drier was investigating his investigation, not offering to help facilitate it. Royce expected pressure, but not this soon. Usually he’d have a few more days before anyone even thought to ask about an NSL or a new investigation. He needed to play along to find out what was going on.
“Of course, of course. I was meaning to write you an email today. This investigation just started this morning.”
“That’s fast. What’s the story?”
“Well, I had a CI murdered in Pittsburgh the other day, and while reviewing the evidence, I came across some strange financial transactions.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah, the CI was a petty dealer for the main distributor of heroin in the Ohio Valley. Anyway, one thing led to another, and, well, I traced some money going from Mexican cartels through banks that might, might, have Middle-East connections.”
“This is big. Are you suggesting a link between heroin distribution and terrorism? On U.S. soil?”
“I’m still fishing.”
“Right, okay. But, if this is what you think it might be, you need help. I need to get a team on this.”
Royce needed to change the subject.
“So, I’m starting to put this thing together, and the next thing I know, my brother, who lives here in Chicago, ends up dead.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, Agent Johnson.” He sounded sorry, but Royce knew not to trust his ears.
“Yeah, terrible. He was…well, thanks. Cops think it’s suicide, but I have my own reasons to doubt that. Anyway, I find out my brother is going back and forth to Pakistan, Beirut, and so on, and while he’s over there, meeting with some shady characters.”
“Wait, you are…are you suggesting that your brother is involved in some way?”
“I don’t know. He was a law professor involved in some consulting on the side. I didn’t know about any of this, but going through his papers, I found some documents that make me believe he might have been killed for what he knew. I don’t think he was deeply involved, but he might have stumbled into something.”
“I see,” Drier said. Royce could hear him paging through a file. “You’re a public corruption and narcotics guy. What are you doing not calling in the pros here? Let me get you what you need.”
“I didn’t want to waste anyone’s valuable time on my wild goose chase. After 9/11, our ASAC told us that every investigation was a national security investigation. Well, when my drug investigation has hints of national security, my orders are to follow the breadcrumbs.”
“But we have a protocol in these situations for a reason, you know that.”
“Give me seventy-two hours at the outside. My draw of resources will be extremely limited. If this turns into something more than a hunch, I’ll turn it over.”
“Okay, Agent Johnson. I’ll expect a sit rep from you in twenty-four hours at the latest. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Uber pulled in front of forty-two-fifty South Cottage Grove Avenue, a shabby yellow Chicago two-flat with faux rock pieces scattered in among the bricks. Royce held up a finger to the driver, while he finished his conversation with Washington.
“Now, do you need anything in the meantime?”
There it was: the empty promise designed to give the pretext for the call some legitimacy.
“No, thanks.” He hung up before Drier could finish his goodbye.
CHAPTER 17
The clock was ticking faster and faster. Royce walked up the crumbling stoop. He pressed the buzzer next to “Jones.” They lived in apartment A, the lower floor, and Royce could see the entrance to it through the glass in the vestibule. An orange eviction notice was plastered to the front door. He couldn’t make out the date, but it was weathered and frayed at the edges. The Jones paid it no attention, realizing that the powers that be didn’t know or didn’t care what they were doing in apartment A. They weren’t the only ones. No one knew where Royce was or what he was doing either, and no one would have supported him if they did.
“Who’s that?” a woman said with a smoker’s voice that carried easily through the cheap walls.
Inside, Marcus Jones was sitting at his mother’s kitchen table feeding his sister’s baby some applesauce. A treatise on international relations law and a yellow pad sat on the table, both smeared in the faded pastel colors of baby food. Despite his F in Alex’s class, Marcus was pressing on with law studies. He’d left Rockefeller University for the Joseph Story Law School—it was a big step down, but he told himself it was a better place for a street-smart city kid anyway. The transfer would allow him to do his third year of school again and to make a fresh start. He convinced Rockefeller Law to transfer only his first two years of credits, and Story to ignore his regrettable third year at Rockefeller. He was pleased with the deal and was beginning to conquer the demons that still came to him at night and in times of stress. But he couldn’t stop thinking about that punk professor, with his fancy Range Rover and his Nantucket pants embroidered with seasonal motifs—pheasants for autumn, snowmen for winter, orioles for spring, and whales for summer. In fact, Marcus’s mind was on Alex, as it often was, when the buzzer rang to their apartment.
His mother pressed the intercom. “Hello?”
“Hello. Is Marcus home?”
“He ain’t here.”
“Ma’am, Marcus isn’t in trouble. I need his help. He may be able to do some good.” The voice sounded ominous as it echoed through their apartment, betraying the words.
“What bill you collectin’ for?”
“Nothing like that. It’s about the unfortunate death of—”
The intercom went dead. Royce instinctively put his hand on his service revolver. He waited a beat, then bounded down the front steps, trampling through barren flowerbeds to the corner of the building. He peeked his head around. About forty yards ahead, he saw a young black man running away in a big hurry.
“Marcus!” Royce shouted. The man turned his head ever so briefly to look back, and Royce knew it was his man. He drew the Glock and took off running after him.
Marcus was younger, faster, and on his home turf. He sprinted for a good three hundred yards, under the El tracks and down streets dotted with vacant lots. Royce was keeping up but he wasn’t going to catch him, jumping over chain-link fences and dodging traffic. In an alley behind a Thai restaurant, Royce stopped running and raised his pistol. A gunshot was unlikely to injure a bystander back here. When Marcus was next to a dumpster, he pulled the trigger.
The shot rang off the metal dumpster, and Royce flinched at the thought of it ricocheting into an apartment. The man froze. He put his hands up and turned around. Royce kept his weapon pointed at chest level.
“Don’t move!” He walked forward. “Marcus Jones? Is that you, Marcus?”
The man’s hands were clasped behind his head. He’d obviously been in this situation before or had heard enough stories from people who were. The look on his face was resignation.
“Yes, it’s me. Ever since the day I was born.” He stood motionless, avoiding eye contact.
“Okay, turn around and get down on your knees.” Marcus did as he was told; Royce pulled a quick-tie plastic cuff from his pocket and tied them tightly around his wrists. He stood Marcus up and walked him over to the back of the Thai restaurant, pushing him hard against the wall.
“Don’t move a muscle.”
Taking a seat on the edge of a trash can, Royce breathed heavily. The smell of rotting pad thai was stomach turning. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding, pain was leaking from his knee and lungs. He caught his breath, then tugged out his phone and dialed the FBI field office.
“Suspect in custody, need transportation. I’m in an alley behind a Thai restaurant on 39th Street, between…”
“Between Drexel and Cottage,” Marcus said over his shoulder.
Royce snorted. That was a first.
CHAPTER 18
About an hour later, Marcus sat in an interrogation room on the twelfth floor of the Federal Building. Royce walked in holding a file. It wasn’t a file on Marcus. It was a file on a petty bank robber they’d brought in earlier in the week. But that was going to be a secret.
Royce dropped the file hard onto the metal table. The scene was straight out of every bad cop show he’d ever seen. “Sorry if I scared you back there in the alley. Why were you running?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. Like I said to your mom before you took off running, I just have a few questions for you.”
“Is that why you tried to kill me?”
“If I wanted to shoot you, Marcus, I would have shot you. When I shoot to kill, I don’t miss.”
“So you’ve killed people, Agent Johnson?”
Royce admired him right away. Most people chained to a desk are too nervous to remember the agent’s name, let alone joust with them. Marcus was cool, but the kind of cool that gave you a headache.
“I’m not the one in federal custody. I’ll ask the questions, not you.”
“Do I know you, man? You look familiar.”
“Nope. And, like I said, I’m the one asking the fucking questions.” Marcus smiled. Royce realized too late that he sounded like he’d lifted that line right out of an episode of Law & Order.
“Get on with it then.”
“Where were you yesterday? Give me a rundown of your day.”
“Listen, I’m not sure why you were chasing me like some kind of fool, or shooting at me. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer. I’m pretty sure if you aren’t going to charge me, you’ve got to release me.”
“Come on, Marcus. This will go much better for you if we can talk without getting all formal and involving lawyers. I need your help.”
“Lawyer.” Marcus crossed his arms and glared.
Royce breathed deeply. “We don’t need one.”
“Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer.”
This wasn’t going as planned. Time to change tactics.
“I’ve got an idea. Let’s go downstairs to the Starbucks and talk over coffee. I’m sorry I shot at you. If it makes you feel any better, I was just trying to get your attention.”
“It worked.”
“I know. Again, I’m sorry. I’m going to catch a lot of hell for that. But it was worth it, because I need your help.”
“If by ‘a lot of hell,’ you mean a civil rights lawsuit, then you are right on.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. Can I buy you a coffee?”
The look on Marcus’s face suggested he was disarmed by this offer. Perps were usually racking their brains trying to think of a lawyer to call, running through countless bus station ads and TV commercials they’d seen from two-bit hucksters. That was the time to throw a curve ball.
“I guess that would be okay. I’m really unclear what’s happening here.”
Royce seized the advantage. Pleased with himself, he walked around and uncuffed him. Marcus rubbed his wrists and said a polite thank you.
They walked side by side through the corridors of the FBI building toward the elevators looking like partners, not cop and perp. Marcus felt Royce’s unease. He had half a mind to just walk away when the elevator got to the ground level, but the other half thought he could talk his way out of this. While his friends used violence and aggression to navigate Bronzeville’s perils, Marcus used words and arguments. Everyone called him Counselor, a name given to him by the head of the Reyes Negros gang, who baptized every little neighborhood boy with a nickname as a way of recruiting troopers. But the names were also predictions. And at eight, even a ruthless street thug could see Marcus was one in a million.
When they got to Starbucks, Marcus ordered a double espresso under the name Oscar and took a seat across from Royce at a table in the corner by the bathroom. From a distance, they looked like friends or, at least, work colleagues.
“Let’s start over,” Royce said, between sips of sweet tea.
Marcus eyed him skeptically. His coffee sat untouched.
“You aren’t under arrest or going to be charged with anything. I want to talk for a few minutes, then I’m going to give you money for a cab and wish you on your way. All right?”
Marcus was expressionless.
“Okay. Listen, I’m working on an important case, and I have reason to believe you may be able to give me information that may be helpful to the investigation. It is a national security investigation.”
This got his attention. “I’m not a terrorist and I don’t know any terrorists, if that’s what you are asking. I love my country, even if it doesn’t always love me back.”
Royce shook his head vigorously. “No, no. I didn’t suggest that. You aren’t a suspect; you are a potential witness.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Agent Johnson?”
“What do you mean?”
“At Quantico, they taught you to shoot at witnesses?”
Royce heard his brother’s mind in that comment. The kid came away with something from the class.
“You have two choices: answer my questions here or answer my questions upstairs in cuffs. Which is it going to be?”
Royce knew nothing he learned would be admissible in court, but he wasn’t trying to build a case. He didn’t have the authority or the time or the chance to do it the right way. But the right way was all he knew. This was virgin ground.
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy, Agent Johnson. I’m not involved in anything that would even be close to being on the FBI’s radar screen. But if you want to hear about my exciting day yesterday, knock yourself out. We both know nothing I tell you will ever be admissible in court.”
“I do, Marcus, I do.”
“I got up at around eleven, eleven-thirty, and made myself some breakfast. I was out late the night before celebrating my friend’s birthday. I hung around my mom’s place—where you were today—for a few hours, then met up with some friends to play basketball at the park. That was about two. We played for a few hours.”
Royce nodded along, scribbling in his Moleskin.
“I came home and took a shower. I read sixty or eighty pages for my classes tomorrow. International relations law. Exciting stuff. Then we went out for some food and drinks. We partied for a while, and I got home, I don’t know, about one-thirty in the morning.” Marcus paused and took a sip of his espresso. His lips flinched and he swallowed hard. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Exactly. Go on.”
“There isn’t much more I can tell you. I can give you specific places and people if you need them, but, as you can see, I didn’t do anything exciting. I didn’t see any crimes. I mean, any crimes you’d be interested in. Walking around in my shoes on my streets, I see lots of crimes, and not just ones committed by criminals. The cops commit a few crimes a day just on my block, you know what I mean?”
Royce let the question hang in the air, as he wrote mindless doodles in the notebook. He knew where Marcus was at 11 a.m. yesterday, and it wasn’t “hanging out at his mother’s house.”
“That’s helpful. Thank you.”
“Okay, man. Whatever. Are we done here?”
“One more thing.”
Royce reached into his bag and pulled the printout of the email Marcus sent his brother. He held it up and looked at its chilling contents. He shook his head and slid it across the table.
“Does this look familiar?”
Marcus was stunned. His look was shock and embarrassment, like he’d been shown a photograph of himself masturbating. He held it up against the light as if to verify its authenticity.
