Savage code, p.2
Savage Code, page 2
part #4 of The Porter Series
“Come in,” a voice shouted.
The officer swung the door open and pointed for Porter to enter. He stepped in and turned right. Behind a large desk sat the sheriff. His large mustache nearly obscured the pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. His uniform top was stretched tightly around his neck and his cheeks were flushed.
“Thank you, boys, that will be all.”
“Sir, maybe we should—”
The sheriff turned his eye from Porter to his men. “That will be all.”
Porter watched as the officers withdrew from the room and shut the door behind them.
The sheriff looked Porter up and down. Then he leaned to his left and spoke. “This the guy?”
Before Porter could turn around, a voice he recognized spoke up. “Hey, asshole. Just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
Porter didn’t turn, but a large smile crept over his face. “I thought if I stopped calling you Tina, you’d ease up on the ‘asshole’ bit.”
“As long as you don’t ever call me that again, you got a deal.”
He turned around, looking down at the curly-haired woman who was sitting near the back of the office in a well-worn leather chair. Her dark eyes sparkled as she smiled up at Porter. Then she stood, stepping toward him.
Her muscular frame stood in contrast to the fact that she was nearly a foot shorter than Porter. She opened her arms to embrace him. Porter raised his hands as much as he could.
She stopped and stepped back, as if noticing the chains for the first time. “Can we get these off him, please?”
The sheriff nodded, little puffs of smoke rising from his pipe. “Let me get one of my boys in here.” He picked up the phone handset on his desk.
“Don’t you have a cuff key?”
“Well… I do, but I think—”
“Then unshackle him. Please,” she added as an afterthought.
The sheriff looked from her to the phone and hung the handset in its cradle. Then he got to his feet and made his way around the desk.
Porter ignored him as the older man went to work, unbinding his hands first. “How you been, Rivera?”
“Better than I deserve.”
“Fighting crime?”
“All over the place. It’s amazing how many shitty people need to be arrested.”
“Still like it?” Porter said.
“I wouldn’t do anything else.”
Porter had to kneel in a chair for the sheriff to get the leg irons off. The man stepped back and collected the shackles when he was done.
Rivera stepped in to hug Porter, who tried to stall her. “Listen, my shower game isn’t the best right now.”
“Please,” she said. “I have a ten-year-old. How bad can you be?”
The hug was tight and firm on her end. Porter tempered his response, being careful not to crush the woman.
“You’re right,” she said, taking a step backward. “You do smell pretty bad.”
Porter smiled. “I gotta say, I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I bet. I got this thing I need to talk to you about. Do you remember…” Rivera’s voice trailed off as she looked toward the sheriff, who, after dropping the chains outside his doorway, was just making his way back around to his desk. “Think we can get a little privacy?”
The sheriff sat heavily on his chair. “Excuse me?”
“Privacy. I have something I’d like to discuss with my friend here. I’d rather not do it in front of you.”
“Ms. Rivera, I think—”
“It’s Detective Rivera.”
The sheriff pulled his pipe from his mouth. “Detective, then. May I remind you that this man is still facing charges for assault in my county. I don’t care how many big-time city lawyers call me about him. It doesn’t matter if you come in here and flash a badge at me. He is in my custody and I need to do what I feel is safest.”
Rivera nodded while she listened. “Sheriff, do you have a top-secret security clearance?”
“I’m sorry?”
“A security clearance. You know, background check, fingerprints, the whole nine? The Feds come out and crawl through your whole life for about six months. Do you have one?”
“Hell, does he?” the sheriff said, pointing at Porter.
“Yes,” Rivera said matter-of-factly.
It wasn’t strictly true. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, Porter had been a federal agent. During his employment, he’d had the highest possible security clearance. He’d never lost his clearance; he just hadn’t gone through the rigmarole of getting it renewed since he’d quit several years earlier.
“We have our own security procedures out here,” the sheriff said.
“Right. Well, that’s not good enough. You aren’t allowed to hear what I’m going to talk to Mr. Porter about. If you do, I could get in trouble for disclosing information I shouldn’t. I’m not going to lose my job because some bumpkin wants to eavesdrop on my conversation. You follow me?”
“Bumpkin? Now wait a minut—”
“No, you wait a minute. I very clearly and respectfully asked you to give us privacy. You didn’t want to hear that, so here we are. Is this an issue?”
Porter watched his friend speak, then looked over at the sheriff, who slammed his pipe down and stood up. “Fine. You can use an attorney-client room. That will give you all the privacy you need.”
“I’d rather speak to him in here,” she said, pointing to the chair she’d stood from. “I’m sure it’s more comfortable.”
Porter laughed to himself.
The sheriff looked at each of them in turn, then walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Rivera looked at Porter. “He was nice.”
Three
Porter rubbed his wrists and leaned back in the chair next to Rivera, their elbows nearly touching. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Ross.”
“He’s got the big-ass mouth. I never told him to call you.”
“Cut him some slack; he’s just looking out for you,” Rivera said, crossing her legs. “Besides, I called him. I’d been trying to find you for a couple days and you weren’t answering the phone.”
Porter nodded, looking above Rivera at a trio of stuffed ducks mounted on the wall. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“How long you been in here?”
He looked down. “Right at forty-eight hours, and you know how I feel about getting arrested.”
“Might as well be a month,” Rivera said. She looked toward the door, then leaned closer to Porter. “I heard you found the kid you were looking for.”
Porter nodded.
“Good. Kind of sloppy getting arrested for tuning some local idiots up. You’re better than that.”
“By the time I got to the trailer, I was too tired to give a damn who saw what.”
“Tired from…?”
“Digging.”
“You mean for information? Or literally digging a hole?”
“Yep.”
Rivera nodded. “The other guys… the ones the hole was for?”
Porter didn’t say anything.
“They had it coming?”
“They always do.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah, good.”
Porter rubbed his wrists again. “The last time we… worked together, you were way more uptight. ‘I can’t be involved in this,’ I seem to remember you saying.”
“Well, it’s been a while,” she said as she leaned back in her chair and exhaled. “When I first joined the Bureau’s task force, I had no clue. I didn’t realize the kind of things I was going to see. All the worst shit in the world, and I get to deal with it on a daily basis. I was still thinking like a rookie detective from Tampa. After a few months… I can see why you’re the way you are.”
Porter nodded. “Glad you came around.”
“So here’s the thing—I need to borrow you for a while.”
“Borrow me? Like a tool?”
“You can be a tool sometimes, so that’s not too far off, I guess,” she said.
Porter shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about? I can’t help you. I can’t help anybody, stuck in this shithole.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Porter looked at her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m not the only person Ross talked to. In fact, he clicked off the phone with me to answer a call from Steve.”
Steven Ajo was Porter’s attorney. A former police officer himself, Ajo was well-versed in the rules of criminal procedure, and tenacious to a fault. He was one of the higher-priced lawyers in Florida, where Porter lived when he wasn’t in jail in the rural northeast. He gave Porter a good deal, and in return, Porter called him whenever he had legal trouble.
Which was more often than either liked.
“And?” Porter said.
“You’re getting released on your own recognizance in the next couple hours. Steve already bitched the magistrate out for having you locked up in the first place. Something about self-defense and the criminal history of the guys you roughed up.”
Porter nodded. “Be nice to get out of here.”
“So, since you being locked up is not going to be an issue for long, can I borrow you?”
Porter adjusted in his chair. “I already said I’m tired.”
“I don’t care much about that.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
“Ruthless.”
“Not yet, but I’m getting there,” Rivera said.
“What do you need me for? I’m sure you can dig up a couple of your FBI buddies to help you out. They get paid for that kind of thing.”
“This is something that you’re uniquely qualified for.”
Porter shook his head. “You aren’t going to take no for an answer, are you?”
“You know me better than that.”
“What is it?”
“All I need you to do is talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone?”
“Yep.”
Porter stood up and paced the office. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me everything?”
“Because I’m not telling you everything.”
Porter stopped pacing and perched on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. “You won’t give me anything to go on?”
“Can I be honest?”
“I hope so.”
“If I tell you what this is about, you’ll tell me to go screw myself.”
“I’m not sure I’d say that.”
“Trust me,” Rivera said. “You’d say it.”
The pair fell into a comfortable silence. Porter was trying to think of a way to pry any more information from the woman, and was running out of ideas.
“Let me ask you a question,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“Do you remember Danisha Hill?”
Porter nodded. “Why ask me that? Of course I remem—”
“You remember who gave you the info that led to you finding her?”
“You’re going to blackmail me with your good deed?”
“No, I’m just saying. There was a point in time when you were stuck, and I put my ass on the line to help you. You should remember that.”
She was right, of course. Regardless of the fact that Rivera had used the success of that case to get her out of her detective job and reassigned to the FBI’s task force, she had helped Porter. He’d never forget.
“I remember, but let’s not act like you were giving me charity. You had your reasons for helping.”
“So? You still owe me, right?”
“I’m not sure we got to that point yet, but for the sake of argument, let’s say I owe you.”
“Good. Then you come and help me with this, and you won’t have to help me with anything else ever again.”
Porter looked at the woman and the small smile creeping over her face. He always forgot that Rivera had a dimple in her chin, but when she smiled, it was prominently on display. Now, it seemed to say to Porter, ‘She’s got you, buddy.’
“Fine,” Porter said, pushing off the sheriff’s desk and walking slowly back to the chair. “I’ll help you. But not because I owe you.”
“No?”
“I’ll help because you’re here and you can give me a ride when they let me out. Cabs are expensive.”
“Very practical.”
“Yeah. Since you can drive me away from this godforsaken place, I might as well go along for the ride. I’d do anything to hitch a ride. I can’t stand even being near jail.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“I hate everything about it. The people. The smells. The bars, feeling trapped. If I never go back to jail, it’ll be too soon.” Porter patted Rivera on the arm. “So since I’m in, can you at least tell me where we’re going?”
“I have to take you to prison.”
He shook his head. “Figures.”
Four
“You realize I know why we’re here, right?”
Porter sat in the passenger seat of the rented sedan. He had the seat pushed all the way back, but it was still uncomfortable. He would have much preferred to sit in the back, where he could stretch out, but then the ride from Pennsylvania to Ray Brook, New York would have been awkward. As it was, he’d spent the last ten hours waiting to be released from jail, then crammed into the small sedan with Rivera.
“Do you?”
Porter nodded, trying to ignore the pain in his cramped knees. “Yeah.”
There was silence in the car for several moments. The parking lot was mostly empty, with only a smattering of vehicles that certainly belonged to the workers inside. Most were pickup trucks, their exteriors showing the remnants of a hard winter—salt and grime and gunk. The roads were clear, and the weatherman on the radio had assured Porter that spring had sprung.
“You aren’t as smart as you think,” Rivera said, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, but I’m not as dumb as you think, or I’d be drooling on myself.”
“So lay it on me.”
Porter smiled. “Right here in the car? The windows aren’t even tinted. I think people would see—”
“No, dick, your theory.”
Porter’s smile faded. He stared at the entrance to the Federal Correctional Institute, Ray Brook, run by the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Just looking at the high stone entryway and endless labyrinth of chain link fencing and concertina wire made him anxious. “You’re a task force officer with the FBI.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“See, here’s the thing about TFOs: they don’t usually travel. They get to have fun and work with the team, but if something needs to happen somewhere else, there are agents in other cities who can run with the ball. So, the fact that you live in Tampa, came to get me in Pennsylvania, and now we're in New York tells me this is a unique situation.”
“This is the great wisdom you have? Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I know that Ray Brook is a medium-security prison. So, there’s a medium-security prisoner who wants to talk to me. Not only that, but a prisoner the FBI would approve you traveling all over the Eastern Seaboard to deal with it. It’s gotta be Candy Man.”
Rivera nodded and didn’t say anything.
“So, if Candy Man wants to see me, then you have a problem. He shouldn’t want to speak to anyone right now. He snitched and got a cushy sentence; he should be doing his time and shutting up, glad he got over on the justice system.”
“What do you think that means?”
“He wants something else. And you’re serving me up to him.”
Rivera exhaled. “Truth is, I don’t know what he wants. His attorney contacted me and said Michelson needed to talk. Said he’d only talk to me on the condition that I brought ‘Mr. Smith’ with me. So, here we are.”
Porter shook his head. “Whatever it is, you know this is bad, right?”
“I know. But there’s nobody else I’d rather have watching my back,” Rivera said.
“Fine. Let’s go. But you’re buying me lunch after.”
“Actually, the FBI’s buying you lunch later. I get per diem for traveling,” she said with a shrug.
They got out of the car and began the walk into the prison.
The process to get in was rigid and robotic. Layers of metal detectors and pat-downs and identification checks and phone calls to verify they had an appointment.
Porter was glad to at least have his wallet. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to give him his property when he left—some bogus excuse about it being evidence. A tongue-lashing from Rivera had pried it free, but Porter’s favorite Glock, the one he’d been wearing when he was arrested, was still a hostage.
He felt naked without it.
Once the multilayered safety procedures were overcome, a captain in a white shirt and blue hat led them to the cafeteria. It was empty after the dinner service, and he pointed them to chairs.
“This guy ever give you any trouble?” Porter said.
“Trouble? Nah. He usually keeps to himself. But he just has a way, you know?” the captain said.
“Like you want to break all his teeth?” Porter said.
The captain laughed. “Yeah, just like that. I’ll get him down here as soon as I can. Have a seat.”
Porter didn’t. He wasn’t interested in comfort. He wanted the visit to be as brief as possible.
Time crawled by as they waited—Rivera sitting, legs crossed, and Porter pacing behind her.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Come on. Relax. Nobody’s going to get you in here.
“Nobody’s going to ‘get me’ anywhere. I just don’t like it.”
She nodded.
An interminable time passed and then, from the far end of the cafeteria, came the sound of a door unlatching.
Then Candy Man entered.
Nearly as tall as Porter, but as thin as Porter was thick, Clive Michelson seemed to float when he walked. His hard, hawkish features gave him a predatory air.
No one spoke as the prisoner covered the distance to the table, and then, unbidden, sat. The captain hung back. Close enough to keep an eye on everything, but far enough away that he couldn’t possibly hear them talk.
