Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [70]
“Luxury cruises?”
“Sure. If you think Estonia’s a playground for the rich and lazy.”
“Estonia?”
“And Romania.”
“What about the Philippines?” Gem asked, softly.
“Nope. Europe. All over Europe, but that’s all.”
I filed it. Filed Gem’s question, too. “What else have you—?”
Byron held up his hand, reached in his jacket, came out with his pager, checked the screen, said, “More than I thought I would, Burke. See for yourself.”
He held the pager so I could reach the window. This time the window read 411 + + +.
I raised my eyebrows, asking what the string of plus signs meant.
“Pictures,” Byron said. “Let’s ride.”
Byron’s ride turned out to be a nondescript dark-green Chrysler four-door. “Tradecraft,” he said, apologetically. He suavely opened the back door for Gem.
She sat way forward, resting her chin on my shoulder, listening to Byron’s travelogue as he crisscrossed streets.
“This is Southeast,” he said. “Kind of a mixed bag. See for yourself.”
What I saw was a string of antiques shops and used-book stores, and a vegetarian restaurant called Old Wives’ Tales. A couple of blocks farther along, a pair of topless joints that looked right at home.
Byron turned off the main drag, his eyes scanning the block. I didn’t know what he was looking for, and he didn’t ask for my help, so I stayed inside myself, waiting.
He slowed at a small stone building—looked like an eight-family unit—then pulled into the driveway and continued until we were in a little alley. Byron reversed the car smoothly, and expertly backed it toward a big garage. The door opened and we rolled in. The door came down again, as silently as silk on silicon.
It was dark inside. No windows. A tiny red light came on in a far corner, no bigger than an LED. I flicked my eyes to my chest, thinking, Laser sight! But I couldn’t see anything.
Byron turned off the engine. A tall man came out of the shadows. When he got closer, I could see he was white, somewhere in his forties, maybe, with a neat haircut, wearing a dark boxy-cut suit.
He bent down so his face was close to Byron’s. I couldn’t hear what passed between them. The tall man opened the back door and climbed in next to Gem. I half-turned so I was facing Byron, my good eye on the back seat.
“This is Brick,” Byron said to us.
“My name is Gem,” she said, holding out her hand.
He shook it.
“Burke,” I told him. And he did the same. His grip was soft and dry. Contact, not pressure—no transmissions. I couldn’t make out all his features, but he had a high forehead and a squarish jaw.
He took some photographs out of a manila envelope I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “These two surfaced at oh-six-twenty-two,” he said. “Just before first light. They came in a pickup, a Ford F150 with California tags.” He read the license number to Byron.
“There goes the budget,” Byron said.
“Shouldn’t take as long as you might think,” Brick replied. “Their truck was one of those ‘Lightning’ jobs—couldn’t miss it, even from a distance. They were real limited production. Can’t be that many of them running around.”
He handed the photos to me, together with a pocket flash. “These are from a digital camera, downloaded and printed. The detail is very good, but you’ll need to blow them up anyway.”
“Try this,” Byron said, taking the flash from me and handing over a rectangular magnifying glass. He trained the light where I was looking. Skinheads. In jackets—one leather, the other denim—and T-shirts. The photos showed them standing next to their truck; walking toward the Russians’ house; returning. The last two shots were close-ups. Even under the low-light conditions, the clarity was better than the average mug shot—I’d know either of them again. And they weren’t from the same crew as the plaza. These two were a decade, if not a generation, older.
I handed the photographs to Gem. Brick took the flash from Byron and held it for her while she checked for herself.
“These men were not the ones who—”
“They’re not,” I agreed with her. Then I asked Brick, “Are they known to—?”
“Have to wait on positive