Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“I had been suspicious for months,” Irving said. “Remember how I told you every sample of heroin comes with its own unique fingerprint? I started noticing that we were getting street samples that looked identical to what the National Drug Bureau had been seizing at the airport.”

“And a light went on in your head,” I said.

“No, not at first,” Wallace said. “I thought it was some strange coincidence or had some kind of benign explanation. But it kept happening. So I started paying careful attention, asking questions, keeping records, that sort of thing. The clincher was actually those samples of ‘The Stuff’ you gave me. I knew I had seen that signature on a shipment that had been seized by the NDB three months ago.

“Anyway,” Wallace continued. “I had a guy do some snooping for me and I found out that particular stash was supposed to be in the Newark Field Office’s confiscation vault. There’s only one person in an NDB field office with free access to the vault: the field director. My snoop called me on Saturday morning to confirm it all. That’s when I started calling you.”

“And here I thought you were only inviting me to your house for brunch so you could kill me,” I said.

The elevator opened and we moved aside to make way for a phalanx of riot police escorting a manacled Randall Meyers, still stoic, out the door. Monty/Pete, still sniveling, was right behind him, also in handcuffs. The lobby filled with the sound of the cops’ rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the highly polished marble floor.

“God, I’m glad we nailed him,” Irving said. “To think of how that man violated the trust in. . don’t get me started. Anyway, where were we?”

“I was accusing you of wanting to kill me,” I said helpfully.

“Oh, right,” Irving said. “The real reason we needed to talk in person was so I could show you how exact the match was on those heroin samples. I ended up showing it to Tommy instead.”

“I tried to call you and tell you what was going on,” Tommy said as they exited. “But your cell phone just kept ringing through to voice mail.”

“It had been confiscated,” I said.

“Oh. Well, then I called Tina,” Tommy said. “I told her ‘the Director’ from the memo was the field director of the National Drug Bureau’s Newark Office and she was like, ‘Oh, my God, Carter is there right now.’ ”

“Actually, I think I said something slightly stronger than that,” Tina interjected, snaking her arm around my waist and holding it there.

“That’s when Irving called his people and made things happen,” Tommy finished.

“Yeah, who are those people, anyway?” I asked.

“No comment,” Wallace said, smiling. “I just hope the U.S. Attorney is going to be able to put a case together.”

“I don’t know if it would be considered admissible, but you think a taped confession would help?” I said, drawing the recorder out of my pocket.

Wallace grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. Tina released her grip on me, giving me another kiss on the cheek. “Not to be the bossy editor,” she said sweetly, “but you’ve got a story to write. So stop gabbing with us girls and get your ass in gear.”

“There’s more of that enlightened management,” I said. “Let me collect my things and I’ll be out of here.”

I grabbed my ficus, aware that I had a houseplant but no house. It was a situation I would have to rectify, if only because I didn’t want to go around being so obviously ironic. I had just retrieved my phone from one of the square-jaw boys when it started ringing.

“Carter Ross,” I answered.

“Hi, Carter, it’s Mrs. Scalabrine from next door,” she said.

“Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but you said to call if anyone saw your cat.”

“You found Deadline?” I said, feeling my heart lift.

“He’s out on the sidewalk right now, pacing back and forth,” she said. “I think he’s hungry. Want me to feed him?”

“I’m sure he’d like that,” I said. “Tell him I’ll be home soon.”