John Shirley: Watch Dogs: Dark Clouds

Wolfe only had one set of I.D. so far, besides a driver’s license. But he wasn’t exactly wanted for anything. He pulled out his military I.D., hoping the detective was sentimental about soldiers, and passed it over.

“This Army I.D.’s expired.”

“Yeah. I was discharged.”

Tranter handed it back. “I’m investigating a shooting. An… alleged shooting. You were at the hospital, asking about someone who may or may not be involved in the shooting.”

“And you found me here? Man, ctOS is fast.”

“It is. Facial ID. Camera on the street, in the hospital and out front here. Your I.D. card confirms it. But… weird thing is, when you got close to that corner, ctOS cameras snowed over. Just lost the picture! We didn’t see what happened after that.”

“Not my fault the cameras fritzed.” This was interesting. Cameras had gone down, when he’d gotten closer to Pearce. That wasn’t Wolfe’s doing. Was it Pearce’s? Had Pearce blocked the local camera feed?

Tranter was looking Wolfe distastefully up and down. Taking in the unshaven jaw, rumpled clothes with disapproval. “Where you going at this instant?”

“Me? Tell you the truth, I was going to commit a misdemeanor. I was going to pee behind the building. Man, I go t to go. They wouldn’t let me use their bathroom in there.”

“You weren’t going to that car parked in back?”

“Me? No.”

“So the Acura’s not yours?”

“Naw. I look like a guy could own a nice new car like that? I heard freckles inside talking on the phone about his new Acura. Leasing. You wouldn’t believe what he’s paying.”

Tranter nodded, but it was not necessarily a nod of agreement. It might be a “this dude is full of crap” nod.

“What’s your interest in Pearce?” Tranter asked.

“Me? Oh, he was a friend of my dad’s from when we lived in the Yards. I’m trying to find a job, thought he might get me one. Went to meet him on the street—that’s the spot he asked for. But he never showed. Someone said somebody’d been shot…”

“Who said that?”

“A bum. High smelling guy with a big brown beard.”

Better keep all these lies straight…

“I can check your whereabouts, you know. Where you been around town?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Suit yourself. I really got to pee. You going to give me a ticket if I pee right here?”

“What? You’re not peeing here!”

“Okay. I’ll just grip myself and squeeze it shut.” He grabbed his crotch. He didn’t want Tranter to put him in the back of his unmarked cop car and run that license number.

“And don’t do that either!”

“Can’t hold it much longer, detective.”

Thinking about it, Wolfe was pretty sure that if Tranter had already run the plates on the Acura, he’d find out it wasn’t registered or leased to anybody; he’d figure it was stolen, and Wolfe would already be in handcuffs for just being a suspicious person heading toward a stolen car.

Tranter must not have seen any ctOS footage of him getting into that car, either. They hadn’t followed up on him that far. But they would… so Wolfe needed to get out of here, first chance.

Third time today he had to get out, fast. At the scene of the shooting, at the hospital, now here. He was feeling like a rabbit. He was still too much a soldier to feel okay about that.

But there was no way he was taking on a Chicago police detective, hand to hand—at least, not today.

“So you heard from a ‘bum’ there was a shooting where you were expecting to see Pearce…”

“Yeah! He saw the name of the ambulance company—if there’s one thing these old alcoholics know, it’s ambulance companies. I had an uncle used to drink all weekend, and one time—”

“Okay, Wolfe, shut up and listen. I’m going to be checking you out. I’m gonna need an address, cell phone number, driver’s license number and if you push it I’ll get your fingerprints.” He took out a small notebook and pencil, wrote down some numbers from the military I.D., and handed the card back. “Come on, start with the address.”

Wolfe gave him the right information—he could always change motels.

“Okay,” Tranter said, putting the notebook away. “Here’s the thing—this Pearce is the subject of an ongoing investigation. Very bad-guy stuff. Do not, repeat, d o not pursue finding him. Word I got is, the guy is dead anyway. We expect his body to turn up on the shore of the lake any time now. We got patrol boats out watching for it.”

Sounds like bullshit to me, Wolfe thought . Me and this cop are dueling liars.

Tranter went on, “So, waste of time for you to look for the guy. You don’t want to get mixed up in his stuff. Tell you something, you know what the best thing for you to do is, right about now? Go to the bus station, use their restroom, then buy a ticket for a long, long ways away, and use that ticket fast. You know what I mean?”

“Sure do.”

“And no peeing in this parking lot! Now get your ass out of here.”

“You got it, detective. I’m gone. Heading for St. Louis. Or maybe Los Angeles… Never been to Los Angeles. I’ve got a cousin there—”

“Yeah, whatever, just get the fuck out of here.”

Wolfe turned and walked off, hurrying like a guy who needed to urinate.

Hurrying felt right anyway, just now.

Pearce used his newest signal-riding program to disguise the source of his smartphone inquiry. It picked up on a wifi PC receiver some distance off, and made it look like that was the source. If he triggered any red flags with his search he didn’t want to be traced to this safehouse. Not when he’d already come within an quarter inch of having a bullet through the brain once today.

There was Wolfe’s data, now. Military record came up first.

Mick Jeremiah Wolfe. Army, Special Forces, Delta Force. Decorated. Six years deployed… Middle East, North Africa. Classified missions. Electronic Technician. I.T. specialist; microwave transmission tracker… Expert on Satellite Surveillance enhancement…

Classified? That was interesting.

Two stints in a field hospital with wounds from small arms fire. Then volunteering each time to return to operations.

Kid seemed to have done his dad proud.

But… suddenly the record got ugly. Arrest for suspicion of embezzlement of federal funds. Started with a not guilty plea in the military court. Insufficient evidence. Prosecuted for assault, perjury. Pled Nolo Contendere for those charges.

What assault? There it was: fistfight with an officer, assault, perjury, resulting in… a year in the United States Disciplinary Barracks up north of Leavenworth. Military prison. And then…

Dishonorable discharge.

Not so proud after all. “Oh kid, what did you do?” Pearce muttered.

Who was this officer he’d gotten into the ruckus with? Verrick , the document said.

A Major Verrick. Definitely not a good idea to punch out a Major when you’re a mere NCO.

Pearce remembered a dirty-faced boy, maybe thirteen, running up and down the sidewalks. Every so often the boy would see Pearce on the corner, ask cheerily, “What’s up, Aiden?” Young Mick Wolfe wanting to seem like an important guy on the street.

Verrick. The name rang a bell. Pearce did a simple search for the name in Chicago, along with Army, and came up with Roger Verrick, the new head of Blume Security for Chicago. He was also a significant shareholder in Blume and a supposed innovator in security technology. A cross check confirmed it—the same guy. There was his picture: curly brown receding hair, lined face, nearly lipless smile, broad shoulders. Former Major in the US Army, Delta Force, his family had long term investments in Blume, he’d joined the corporation after retiring from the military about a year and a half ago.