The shadowmaker, p.18
The Shadowmaker, page 18
“There’s more to it than that,” he argued. “I just don’t what it is yet.”
“So you’re going back?”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“Well, I can’t help you with that. I have to work,” she proclaimed.
“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”
Isabell lowered her head and closed her eyes. She cared for him, no matter how hard she tried not to. “I can pick you up Friday evening,” she finally offered.
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“A.J. knows more than he’s telling us, by the way. A lot more.”
“You’re probably right,” Henry agreed. “He says he and Darius never discussed specifics, but I don’t know if I believe him.”
“And you don’t think Anton found out about this?”
Henry refused to even entertain the insinuation. “No. There’s just no way.”
“Am I reaching here?” she continued. “Would Anton kill Darius if he knew about all this?”
The pieces fell easily into place—perhaps too easily, he thought. “Yeah, I guess he would.”
“That means he wouldn’t hesitate to kill us either.”
“You’re assuming Anton’s aware of everything—Darius, the house, all of it. We don’t know that right now.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying,” he struck back. “But we have no idea if Darius’ death is even related to any of this. All we know is that Darius wanted me to see it.”
“Fine. But I want you to be careful. With Anton, with Asa… all of them. You can’t trust anyone right now.”
“I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course you can trust me! But at a certain point, I have to watch out for myself.”
They merged onto the interstate and continued southbound in complete silence.
Finally, they entered Midtown and she parked the van on a curb five blocks from his building. Henry reached for the door handle and glanced up at her. “Thanks again. See you Friday?”
She offered a knowing wink as he stepped out of the van and onto the sidewalk.
With a tired breath, Henry began a casual stroll back to the Forty West building.
CHAPTER 21
Miles sat in a metal folding chair in front of a large window facing the Park Avenue complex. He pressed his hands together in his lap and stared vacantly at Anton’s penthouse across the street. “Were you at the FBI building this morning?” he finally asked.
Garza took a sip from his bottled water, then set it at his feet. “Yeah, why?”
“Any leads on the Martović murder?”
“No, I don’t think forensics was able to pull anything from the crime scene. The shooter must’ve picked up his casings before he fled. All we’ve got are the ones scattered around the body, which were likely from Martović’s gun. Nine-millimeter.”
“Do we have the gun?”
Garza rubbed his chin in thought. “No. I imagine Sirola took it. We’re gonna need to question him at some point. He’s our only witness.”
“He’ll pop up.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Anton’s probably got him halfway to Canada by now.”
Before Miles could argue, the front door blew open and Agent Harwick stormed into the room. “Brennan, a word please.” Miles got up from his post and followed the lead agent into the master bedroom. “So?” Harwick asked impatiently.
“So what?”
Harwick closed the door and raised his index finger to Miles’ face. “You’re out of time, hotshot. We’ve already got one dead Ružaro captain, and whatever the hell Anton just snatched from the bottom of the ocean is being shipped to Atlanta as we speak. Who’s your fucking informant? I’m done playing games!”
Miles had hoped to avoid this confrontation for as long as possible. “Listen, Agent Harwick, I’m really sorry—”
“I don’t want to hear how sorry you are, Brennan! Give me a goddamn name!”
Miles kept his eyes ahead of him. “It was Darius Martović,” he stated. “The Shadowmaker’s dead.”
Harwick’s face flared with astonishment. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
The NSA agent ran his hand over his head and began pacing the small room. “So we’ve got nothing. Our informant’s dead and we have absolutely fucking nothing to show for it.”
“That sounds about right, sir.”
“Do you think Krunoslav found out he was an informant and had him killed?”
“Absolutely not,” assured Miles. “This is just bad luck.”
“I want a full report of your last three interactions with him on my desk by five o’clock.”
“Of course. I’ll go ahead and put something together.”
Harwick continued to pace. The wheels in his mind were spinning furiously. “So what happens now? From their end?”
Miles considered it for a moment. “Well, Anton will have to replace Darius with a new captain.”
“Any ideas who that might be?”
“My guess is either Peter Guillen or Henry Sirola.”
“Speaking of which, where the hell is Henry Sirola?”
Miles shook his head. “We have no idea, sir. Garza thinks he went to ground, I happen to believe he’ll stick his head out sooner than later. There’s still work to be done on their end and Anton needs all of his best men operational right now.”
“Find him!” Harwick shouted as he marched into the foyer and out the front door, slamming it behind him.
“He seems pleasant today,” Garza noted from behind a set of mounted binoculars.
“He’ll be fine. Has Anton left his residence yet?”
The DCIS officer squinted into his lens. “Nope. He’s sitting in his office alone.”
As they watched in silence, Miles’ cell phone rang. “Special Agent Brennan,” he answered.
“Agent Brennan, this is Sergeant Wilshire with Atlanta PD.”
“Morning, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a fella named Henry Sirola down here at the Fifth Precinct, says he wants to give a witness statement concerning the murder of Darius Martović. I was told this was an FBI matter and Special Agent Tisdale gave me your number.”
“Sure thing. I can be there in ten minutes.”
“That’d be perfect. We’ll hold him till then.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Miles shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Ha! What did I tell you!”
“What happened?” asked Garza.
“Henry Sirola.”
“Get outta here! Seriously?”
“Yep. He’s sitting at the Fifth Precinct ready to give a statement.”
“Well, isn’t that some dumb luck.”
The agents hustled out of the room and down to the back lot where they jumped into Miles’ Suburban and sped south onto Peachtree Street.
Minutes later, they arrived at the Fifth Precinct and entered the building with their badges held in the air. A young officer directed them to a desk in the back corner of the bullpen. Sergeant Wilshire sat behind a stack of paperwork with a clean-shaven face and brown eyes, which rested behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “You Brennan?” he asked sharply.
“I am. This is my partner, Officer Garza from DCIS.”
Sergeant Wilshire shook both their hands with a firm grip. “All right, gentlemen, your boy’s sitting up the hall in Interview Room Three. Let me know if you need anything.”
Miles turned for the hallway.
He and Garza arrived at a metal door and peered in through a tiny window, where they could see Henry sitting at a small table with his back to the door.
“That’s our guy,” Miles said before he barged in and took a seat. He and Henry locked eyes. “You must be Henry Sirola.”
“And you must be a rocket scientist,” the brash criminal replied.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’ve interviewed me before. I’ve seen you around,” Henry granted, trying his best to stay in character.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Miles Brennan, and this is Officer Antonio Garza with the Defense Criminal Investigative Service.”
“And I like long walks on the beach. Who the fuck killed my friend?”
Miles tapped his fingers against the table. The game was on. “We’re looking into that now actually. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Sirola. I understand you knew the victim well.”
“I just hope you two are competent enough to find whoever’s responsible.”
“I can assure you, we’re doing the best we can. Sergeant Wilshire says you’re here to submit a witness statement, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to turn on this recorder, okay?”
“Sure.”
Miles clicked the Record button on a small digital device, then set it on the table. “So, what exactly was your relationship with Darius Martović?”
“I work at Scranton and Brooks. He was my boss.”
“The crime scene indicates that Mr. Martović was in the park with another person when he was murdered. I’m assuming that other person was you?”
“Let’s cut the shit, Agent Brennan. You know damn well it was me.”
“All right, then. Tell us what happened.”
Henry turned his eyes to the two-way mirror against the wall, then back to the agents. “Darius and I had dinner together, then went back to his house to work on a new project. When we pulled in, he wanted to take a walk through the park… so we did.”
“Where’d you two have dinner?” asked Miles.
“La Grotta.”
The agent raised an eyebrow. “Fancy place. So after that, you went straight to the park?”
“We drove around for a while—maybe thirty minutes—before we got back to his house.”
“When you walked to the park, did you see anyone else around?”
“No.”
“Any strange individuals you may have run across earlier in the night?”
“None that I can think of.”
“Did Mr. Martović have any enemies?”
The question almost seemed silly, even to Henry. “Nobody that I was aware of.”
“Give me a break,” Garza groaned from the corner of the room. “We’re not stupid, Henry. We know who you really work for and what you really do. Stop playing games with us.”
“I’m a business development specialist for an architectural firm.”
“Fine,” Garza scoffed. “Tell us what happened when the shooting started.”
“Darius was hit twice right away. He fell to the ground and we took cover behind a large boulder.”
“Was that it or was there more shooting?” asked Miles.
“I don’t know. I think the guy took a few more pot shots at us after that.”
“How many?”
Henry was genuinely trying to remember now. “Three.”
“Mr. Martović had an empty holster under his arm. Did he have a weapon?”
“Yes. A nine-millimeter.”
“Did he return fire?”
“No. I did.”
“With Martović’s gun?” pressed Miles.
“Yes.”
“How many rounds did you get off?”
“Three or four. I just sprayed toward the trees.”
“You could’ve killed somebody!” Garza interrupted.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Yes, that was my intention.”
“Was he dead when you left?” Miles continued.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just curious. Did you leave him to die alone or did you stay there with him?”
“He died next to me.”
“And where did you go after that?”
“I went to a friend’s place.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“I was scared.”
Miles crossed his arms at his chest and examined his witness. “So where’s this nine-millimeter now?” he carefully asked.
“I tossed it.”
“Where?”
Henry bore his elbows into the table and leaned in. “Up your fucking ass.”
“Cute. Very cute,” Miles snickered.
“Are we done here?”
“Not until I get the location of Darius’ gun and the name of the friend whose place you went to after the shooting.”
Henry rubbed his eyes, exhausted and frustrated. “Fine. I tossed the nine-mil into a trash can on the north side of the park.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No. It was dark, I was under duress.”
Miles granted a phony smile. “And who’s the friend you went and stayed with?”
“I’m not giving you a name,” countered Henry. “I don’t see what that has to do with Darius’ murder. Besides, I’m not interested in dragging anyone else into this mess.”
Garza stepped forward and set his hands on the table. “Listen, Henry. I know you guys prefer good old-fashioned street justice, but if you know who did this to your friend, you need to tell us. Otherwise, this thing only gets worse from here. We don’t need a gang war on our hands.”
“It’s not like that,” Henry asserted. “None of us wants a war. And I truly have no idea who would want Darius dead.”
“Okay,” Miles concluded. “If you have any other information or you happen to remember anything that might help us out, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.” The FBI agent placed a business card on the table and got up from his chair.
“Am I free to go?”
“Of course. But don’t go far.”
Henry stood and walked through the door and into the hallway. He brushed past several police officers before exiting the precinct and getting into his car.
Miles and Garza followed him out of the building and climbed into the Suburban. “So what now?” Garza asked as they watched him pull away.
“Now that he’s resurfaced, I don’t want to lose him again. We need to stay on him.”
After pulling through an old chain-link gate, the SUV shot north onto Williams Street. The agents caught up with their target in Midtown and followed the Maserati south into Inman Park.
* * *
Henry arrived at Scranton and Brooks, went to his office, and descended into the dark cavernous tunnels belowground. This time, however, he took a different path and emerged in the wine cellar of Ammazza Trattoria on the opposite side of the block.
He reached his hand beneath one of the wooden wine racks and retrieved a small backpack stuffed with a change of clothes. He emptied the bag, then removed his jacket and put on a green hoodie and black ball cap. After shoving his jacket inside and returning the bag to its hiding place, he pushed through a door and into the kitchen, maneuvering past a small army of sous chefs and waiters.
He continued to a rear exit and followed the alley to the street, where a waiting taxi whisked him to the West End MARTA station. He boarded the red line which took him north to the edge of the city. He got off at Sandy Springs and darted up the stairs and into the parking lot.
It was almost four o’clock, and Henry had an hour to burn before meeting with A.J.
He made his way across the lot and began marching up the sidewalk for nearly a half mile before arriving at the Perimeter Shopping Center and dipping into a narrow side street. Ahead of him, a neon sign for Woody’s Billiards flickered against the window.
The place was a rundown dump, wedged between a liquor store and a laundromat. He opened the front door and stepped into a dark, musty bar with only a handful of lightbulbs dangling above a few empty pool tables. He noticed an older couple in the corner drinking draft beers and whispering to each other. The man wore an old tattered biker vest and a red bandana across his forehead; the woman’s clothes were tight and disheveled, her hair white with streaks of yellow.
Henry kept his eyes down and made his way to a small table against the wall.
A tall, slender woman with greasy hair and stained teeth wandered over. “Thirsty?” she asked.
“Miller Lite,” he said quietly.
She pursed her lips and peeled away toward the bar, returning moments later with a cold bottle.
“Open a tab, sweetheart?” she asked with a thick southern drawl.
Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a few loose bills. He counted them out before setting a twenty on the sticky table. “I’ll probably have a couple more. Keep the change.”
“Just holler when you’re ready,” she said as she snatched the money and disappeared.
Henry brought the bottle to his lips, then wiped his mouth and scanned the place over. There was a swing door just beyond the bar that led to what he assumed was the kitchen. Surely there would be an exit there, he thought.
He polished off his beer as a Hank Williams song bellowed from a hidden speaker somewhere nearby. Eventually, the bartender brought him another Miller Lite.
After the jukebox cycled through a few more hits from an out-of-date playlist, A.J. walked through the front door and shuffled over to the table. His wavy hair was neatly combed back, tucked behind his ears, and his biceps filled the arms of a red-and-blue flannel shirt.
“Thanks for coming,” Henry greeted.
A.J. took his seat. “How long you been waiting?”
“Thirty, forty minutes, maybe. Is the food any good here?”
“Terrible. Stick with the beer.”
The bartender returned and took A.J.’s order—a Red Stripe and a bowl of pretzels—then slipped back to the bar.
“How’d you find this place?” Henry wondered aloud.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
Henry took a swig from his beer as A.J.’s Red Stripe landed on the table.
“You boys all set for now?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” A.J. kindly replied.
Henry watched her walk away with a certain disdain. He hated getting out of the city. “Next time just pick me up at the train station,” he complained.
“No can do, man. Cameras everywhere down there.”
“Seriously?”
A.J. leaned in and gripped his bottle. “You’re under federal surveillance, my friend. You think I’m stupid?”
