Max Collins - Executive Order

She asked, “How is he?”

“Out of surgery. Awake, I’m told.”

They got off the elevator, took an endless corridor walk to the ICU, pushed through the double doors. Glenn Willard was just two rooms down. As advertised, the suspect was awake, hooked to an IV and several monitors, propped up slightly in a bed, a thin white blanket covering him, though where he’d been shot, the bandages made a mound. As they came in, a middle-aged nurse, taking his vitals, gave them an accusatory look.

Holding up her credentials, Rogers said, “FBI,” for the benefit of both caregiver and care-given.

The patient, getting his blood pressure taken at the moment, goggled at Hardesy. To the nurse, he said, “That’s the asshole who shot me!”

The nurse gave Hardesy a glare, and the agent casually said, “That’s who I am, all right. And he’s the asshole who drew down on a federal agent.”

Now the nurse seemed nervous and she finished up and got out, never having spoken a word. Rogers and Hardesy stood on opposite sides of the patient’s bed. The patient looked alert enough.

“Getting shot over some damn dope,” Willard complained. “Not even real drugs. Stupid.”

“We’re in agreement,” Hardesy said.

“That’s not why we’re here,” Rogers said. “And it’s not why we were at your apartment today either.”

Willard frowned in confusion. “Then why did you come around?”

“We wanted to talk to you about Secretary Yellich. We still do.”

“Well, she’s dead, right? Heard about that. She was nice, always... cheerful, tipped good. Too bad. But what’s it got to do with me?”

Hardesy said, “You delivered food to her regularly.”

“Yeah. So? Look, I know she was important. Secretary of the Interior, right? Whatever that is.”

Rogers asked, “Did you know she had an allergy to sesame?”

“No. I don’t make sandwiches, I just deliver them. Like I said, she was a nice lady, kind of foxy for being that old. We joked around and stuff. I liked her. I’m sorry she died. You should check at the sandwich shop, if that’s what killed her.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Hardesy said.

Willard shifted in bed and made a pained face. With Rogers on one side and Hardesy on the other, he had to work a little. They meant him to.

“Hey,” he said. “Five days a week I delivered her a damn sandwich and some chips. We exchanged, you know, pleasantries. I gave her lunch and she gave me the money with a twenty-five percent tip. That’s the whole story.”

Rogers said, “You didn’t deliver her sandwich every day.”

“Sure I did.”

“Not the day she died.”

“I didn’t?”

Hardesy leaned in menacingly. “Now is a bad time to play dumb.”

“I’m not playing dumb!”

“Then you really are an idiot?”

Rogers gave her partner a quick look.

Willard was shaking his head. “Look, guys, they got me goofed up on pain meds, and most days I’m usually a little lit anyway, you know?”

Rogers said, “We made that leap.”

“So for me, time sort of... runs together.”

“Well,” she said, “since you delivered the Secretary’s lunch ‘every day,’ you surely must remember the one day you didn’t.”

His boyish features tightened in thought. “Well... I do. Didn’t realize that was the day she bought it, but yeah — I remember it. Only, really, I did work that day.”

Hardesy said, “Somebody else is on the security footage outside the Secretary’s office. Much as I would like you to’ve delivered the fatal sandwich, Glenn, you didn’t.”

“Somebody took your place that day,” Rogers said. “Who?”

Willard gestured with an open hand and tugged on his IV. “Like I said, I did work, but... my buddy Tony filled in for part of the day.”

“Your buddy Tony who?”

“Tony Evans. Anthony Evans.”

“Why did he fill in part of the day?”

“You know... I had stuff to do. This and that. Stuff.”

“ Why did he fill in, Glenn?”

He shifted in bed a little. “I don’t think I want to answer that. Maybe... maybe it’s time I lawyered up.”

Hardesy said, “Might be at that, if we arrest you on an accessory to murder charge.”

That got Willard’s attention. He managed to sit up some. “I’m no accessory! I told you, I liked that lady. If Tony did something to her, I had nothing to do with it!”

Rogers said, “Then answer the question — why did Tony fill in for you part of the day?”

His eyes squeezed shut as if the pain had gotten worse; in a way, maybe it had. “All right, okay, all right. I had a chance to score some primo chronic at a crazy low price... but the guy selling it could only meet me at a certain time.”

“Let me guess,” Hardesy said. “The time you were supposed to deliver the Secretary’s sandwich.”

“Well, it was that time of day, yeah. I didn’t remember that was the day that... that she, you know, died.”

Rogers said, “So you got Tony to take your place. I would imagine you have lots of friends, Glenn. Why pick on Tony?”

Willard was shaking his head. “No, no, it wasn’t that way — he volunteered.”

“Volunteered?”

“Yeah, he did! Who do you think told me about the guy with the primo chronic?”

Rogers and Hardesy exchanged narrow-eyed looks.

“Your pal Tony,” Hardesy said.

Willard nodded several times. “Tony did, yeah.”

Rogers asked, “So tell us about the delivery.”

Willard huffed a laugh. “What do you think? I met the guy, I bought the dope. The end.”

“Not the dope, Glenn. The sandwich. The owner of the shop says you did your regular deliveries that day.”

“Oh. Yeah, well. I didn’t want to get on Mr. Avninder’s bad side — he’s a good boss, but he has a temper.”

She nodded for him to continue.

“He’da been pissed if I didn’t make that delivery myself, so I walked the sandwich out of the shop, gave Tony my Ye Olde jacket and hat, and a bag of sandwiches and chip packs, for lunch-hour delivery, with instructions... but not till I was around the corner from the shop. Then Tony made the deliveries, including the Secretary’s lunch.”

Only instead Tony had delivered murder.

Rogers asked, “How did you meet Tony?”

“He was a customer. I sold him a lid or two at a couple of dance clubs, you know, in the john. We got friendly. He started doing a little dealing himself and I helped him out.”

“Did you approach him or vice versa?”

“Him me.”

Rogers asked, “Where can we find your friend — Tony?”

“After what he’s put me through,” Willard said, “he’s no friend of mine.”

And gave them an address.

On the way back to the Ford, Rogers called Miggie and gave him Tony Evans. Minutes later, with her driving, Hardesy put Miggie on speaker.

“The Skygate Apartments address is right,” Miggie said. “At least for the last three months, anyway.”

“The guy just moved there?” Hardesy asked.

Miggie said, “Yeah, but the thing is, before three months ago?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t find any indication that this particular Tony Evans exists.”

Rogers and Hardesy traded a look. “Thanks, Miggie. Keep digging.”

“I brought a shiny new shovel, boss,” he said, then clicked off.

Hardesy said, “What’s your pal Reeder got us into? A cabinet member murdered, and it was put in motion months ago? This shit is getting serious.”

“And deep.”

They drove awhile.

Then Hardesy asked, “You suppose there’s any chance this guy is still at Skygate?”