Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

“We should meet.” Kreiger’s heavily accented voice does not identify itself. Just the three words, but in an assertive tone that implies paragraphs. Knox knows too much because of Grace; he’s reading too much into it. Impatience, determination, suspicion. He cycles out that chip, replacing it with the original. How long has it been? Five minutes? Thirty? But as the next SIM card logs on to the Dutch mobile carrier, there’s already a message waiting.

The number is “UNKNOWN.”

He slurps another Scotch down. Scarfs some bar nuts and chases it all with a beer. It’s all so easy now—his throat doesn’t fight it. An elixir. It pulls an opaque curtain across the past few hours, adds a dash of humor where none was possible. It allows him to acknowledge the babe at the end of the bar who makes eyes every few minutes. Doesn’t know why he does it. Can’t figure out who’s doing this from inside him. He’s possessed. He can blame it on the Scotch. He can blame it on Sonia. But he knows better.

The babe isn’t interested, adding insult to injury. Or maybe she’s on the meter and figures him light in the wallet. No matter.

Can’t bring himself to retrieve the message. It’s either Dulwich or Sonia. Painful, no matter what. But Tommy and Daniel have this number as well as others. It can’t be ignored. He touches his shot glass, ordering number five. He’s a big boy, he tells himself; he can handle it. He and everyone else leaning over the bar barely moving.

“For what it is worth,” says the recorded male voice, “I did not expose you. Out of professional courtesy. She is a celebrity here. You must know that. It was not so difficult to make sense of it, Mr. Steele, but you might have—”

Knox hears nothing past the mention of his cover. It’s Chief Inspector Brower’s voice. Only now does it register. It’s the confluence of two worlds, a Twilight Zone moment. Only Sonia calls him by that name. She is a celebrity here . . .

He drags the iPhone’s blue time line back to listen again. “—you might have warned me. I allowed her to monitor the interview of Demir. Unseen, of course. One-way glass. Her taking off like that. Most unprofessional. I expected some courtesy. I believe we had an agreement to work together, did we not? I would appreciate your sharing whatever it was he said that triggered that hasty departure. I believe you owe me that much. I am on the graveyard. Call me. Please.”

He bumps the Scotch, nearly spilling it, while going for his wallet. “How much?” In Dutch. The single malt is insanely expensive. He overtips the moment he sees the first of the five shots ring up on the register. Does the math in his head. Is out the door.

The bitch! The Scotch speaking. The Scotch working at his temples and his knees like an invisible kickboxer. Calls Brower back. Demir’s interview was videoed. He’s on his way.

Risks a series of trams. Feels a million eyes on him. Wonders how much is the liquor. Breaks his own rules. Hopes she has more sense than he.

Calls her from the third tram. It goes straight to voice mail. Calls Dulwich.

“I need a real-time fix on her, pronto. Code red, Sarge.”

“Copy.”

The call ends, Knox marveling at Dulwich’s self-control, his not throwing a punch. Dulwich is the closest thing he has to a real friend, which is somewhat depressing. He fits Grace into that equation, but doesn’t know how to assign value. She’s more of a fixed variable. Dulwich is the common denominator.

Middle of the third tram ride, his phone vibrates.

“No joy,” Dulwich says. “Device is disengaged or destroyed. No signal.”

Disengaged, Knox thinks, ruminating on the word . . . or destroyed . Sonia is AWOL.

“On my way to Brower,” Knox explains. “He may have something for us.” He holds back from admitting the reporter has scooped him.

“Progress here,” Dulwich says.

“Keep trying, will you?”

“You’ll hear if I do.”

Knox tucks the phone away. Takes a moment to look out a window. Catches his agonized reflection in the glass. Turns away from it.

—

BROWER COOPERATES,suggesting he’s expecting a quid pro quo. It tells Knox that Demir’s interview was inconclusive and that whatever drove Sonia from oversight of the interview is now the carrot they both seek.

Knox buries the ask, out of gamesmanship. No way Brower is giving him everything.

Finally, the opportunity comes around. “Maybe if I saw the interview tape . . . ?” Knox says.

“But I tell you, there is nothing. Pfff. I am preparing to begin the interrogation, and there is one of my men asking for her recorder back.”

“Her recorder,” Knox echoes.

“Exactly that,” Brower concedes. “I never claimed to know how to run the damn thing. Every one of them is different. Is it not so?”

“Every recorder,” Knox tests.

“I had barely turned the thing on and she wants it back!”

“Could I see?”

“I tell you, there is nothing to see.”

Knox is capable of being belligerent. Would rather not take it that far. Is warming up to it as Brower shrugs.

“Why not?”

The room smells of a cigarette veneer mixed with the acrid bitterness of electronics. Contrary to the state-of-the-art resources available to Rutherford Risk, this looks like a high school language lab. The video is low definition, though the sound quality is above average.

Demir occupies a fixed chair with his hands cuffed to a chain between his legs. Given that pose, he’s doing everything possible to look bored and in control, but it’s a losing effort. The chains rattle; he lets go two deep sighs as he works to calm himself.

“He’s been coached, or he’s been through this before,” Knox says.

“Evidently.”

“Does he have a record?”

“Not within the EU.” Brower adds, “We are checking outside, including your FBI.”

On the screen, the door opens. Demir is careful not to change his demeanor even slightly; he stares straight ahead like a man stuck in a long waiting line. Brower enters and sits down. He reads the suspect some legalese that pertains to his rights, pointing out that video and audio will be recorded and may be used as evidence. He slaps down a legal pad and proffers a Crayon.

Next, he withdraws a device from his pocket.

“Is that—?”

“I tape all my interviews. We . . . our department . . . has experienced some misfiling of certain interrogation recordings.”

“Permanent misfilings?”

Brower doesn’t answer.

On the video, Brower studies the device and works its buttons. The digital recorder plays instead of records. A male is heard speaking. The voice continues from the device as Brower works to stop it from playing.

“Damn thing,” Brower says to Knox. “Buttons meant for a child!”

On screen, the recorded voice stops. Brower places the device onto the table.

“State your name and age, please,” Brower says to Demir.

The interview door swings open. Sonia comes through the door, a female officer a step behind. Sonia leans in to Brower and whispers. He motions his officer away—clearly annoyed by the interruption—then whispers back to Sonia.

“She asked me who was on the device,” he tells Knox.

“And you told her . . . ?”

Brower pauses the video.

On the screen is Sonia looking into the camera. Directly at Knox.

“What did you tell her?” Knox repeats.

“Kahil Fahiz,” Brower says. “It was the interview with Fahiz following the assault. I didn’t conduct the session, but following your and my initial conversation, I asked for a dub in order to study it.”

“Could you play the video again, please?”