time –or even if – Striker would get home tonight.
Eleven
I got up at dawn, dressed, and left a note on the silver tray that sat on the entryway table. Celia already knew I’d be gone before she woke.
After tucking my car into the public garage, I shadow-walked the two blocks to Spyder’s, practicing my martial arts skills of moving in plain sight without being seen. I needed to make sure no one followed. Pushing through the rusted industrial door, I moved into the calm energy of his apartment to find it empty. I checked my watch; I was ten minutes early. My gaze moved around the room, where I didn’t see any telltale signs the place had been occupied for the last few days – no mail sitting on the counter, no trash in the bin. I checked the fridge. It stood empty except for a bottle of water and a bottle of soy sauce.
I was glad I had picked up a few things for breakfast – fruit and baozi from a Chinese street vendor. I set them on the counter, then grabbed a knife from the block to cut bottoms off the stems from my flower bouquet. Spyder slipped through the door just as I placed an arrangement on each side of the altar. Without a word, he kissed my forehead, and we folded ourselves into position for morning meditation.
Centered and peaceful, I stood at the sink, filling Spyder’s bright red kettle with tap water to make our tea. “Where have you been? You didn’t tell me you were going out of town,” I said as I moved toward the stove and turned the element to high.
Spyder opened the tea canister and inhaled the aroma deeply before offering it to me to smell. “I needed to transfer a prisoner to a new safe site and have an important conversation.”
“That’s yummy, what is it?”
“Gyokuro, a new favorite. And to answer your next question, he is a man named Brody Covington.”
“Brody Cov. . .? You transferred — wait. I thought he was comatose and under arrest on two counts of capital murder.” I stood with a kitchen towel stretched between my hands, blinking at Spyder.
“He was indeed. And many people were anxious about this turn in his health. Some because they wished him to become well so they could interrogate him; others wished he would pass peacefully away and no longer pose a threat.”
“Why do you care about Brody Covington, though? He was just a worker bee at one of Sylanos’s factories.”
“How did you get that information?” Spyder asked.
“I guess I assumed that was his role from what I saw in the tape of his arrest, and because when Julio Rodriguez was questioned in prison, he didn’t seem to know Brody’s name. Julio only knew that Brody showed up and thought it was Maria Rodriguez who hired him.”
“Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.”
“Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“Isaac Asimov.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a gentle smile spread across his face.
“So I got played. What was his role in the Sylanos Cartel structure? You said that Sylanos turned the rudder and the ship headed in a different direction. Before, the direction was a distinct triangle from the US to Honduras to Columbia and back. The US sent pirated software and music to Honduras, because Honduras was the South American distribution center. Honduras paid money. The money was spent in Columbia on guns and, in a limited way, human trafficking and drugs, which were then brought to America and turned into even more money. That money was laundered through fronts and transferred around.” I searched through Spyder’s utility drawer until I found the tea strainer and filled it with loose leaves from the canister. This gave me a moment for a new thought to bubble up. “Striker is paired with a Secret Service agent, code named Scarlet Vine, watching Maxx Schwartz, a customs agent. Are these all related data points?”
“I see you used your time at the ball well.”
“You sent me to the ball so I could
Eleven
I got up at dawn, dressed, and left a note on the silver tray that sat on the entryway table. Celia already knew I’d be gone before she woke.
After tucking my car into the public garage, I shadow-walked the two blocks to Spyder’s, practicing my martial arts skills of moving in plain sight without being seen. I needed to make sure no one followed. Pushing through the rusted industrial door, I moved into the calm energy of his apartment to find it empty. I checked my watch; I was ten minutes early. My gaze moved around the room, where I didn’t see any telltale signs the place had been occupied for the last few days – no mail sitting on the counter, no trash in the bin. I checked the fridge. It stood empty except for a bottle of water and a bottle of soy sauce.
I was glad I had picked up a few things for breakfast – fruit and baozi from a Chinese street vendor. I set them on the counter, then grabbed a knife from the block to cut bottoms off the stems from my flower bouquet. Spyder slipped through the door just as I placed an arrangement on each side of the altar. Without a word, he kissed my forehead, and we folded ourselves into position for morning meditation.
Centered and peaceful, I stood at the sink, filling Spyder’s bright red kettle with tap water to make our tea. “Where have you been? You didn’t tell me you were going out of town,” I said as I moved toward the stove and turned the element to high.
Spyder opened the tea canister and inhaled the aroma deeply before offering it to me to smell. “I needed to transfer a prisoner to a new safe site and have an important conversation.”
“That’s yummy, what is it?”
“Gyokuro, a new favorite. And to answer your next question, he is a man named Brody Covington.”
“Brody Cov. . .? You transferred — wait. I thought he was comatose and under arrest on two counts of capital murder.” I stood with a kitchen towel stretched between my hands, blinking at Spyder.
“He was indeed. And many people were anxious about this turn in his health. Some because they wished him to become well so they could interrogate him; others wished he would pass peacefully away and no longer pose a threat.”
“Why do you care about Brody Covington, though? He was just a worker bee at one of Sylanos’s factories.”
“How did you get that information?” Spyder asked.
“I guess I assumed that was his role from what I saw in the tape of his arrest, and because when Julio Rodriguez was questioned in prison, he didn’t seem to know Brody’s name. Julio only knew that Brody showed up and thought it was Maria Rodriguez who hired him.”
“Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.”
“Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“Isaac Asimov.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a gentle smile spread across his face.
“So I got played. What was his role in the Sylanos Cartel structure? You said that Sylanos turned the rudder and the ship headed in a different direction. Before, the direction was a distinct triangle from the US to Honduras to Columbia and back. The US sent pirated software and music to Honduras, because Honduras was the South American distribution center. Honduras paid money. The money was spent in Columbia on guns and, in a limited way, human trafficking and drugs, which were then brought to America and turned into even more money. That money was laundered through fronts and transferred around.” I searched through Spyder’s utility drawer until I found the tea strainer and filled it with loose leaves from the canister. This gave me a moment for a new thought to bubble up. “Striker is paired with a Secret Service agent, code named Scarlet Vine, watching Maxx Schwartz, a customs agent. Are these all related data points?”
“I see you used your time at the ball well.”
“You sent me to the ball so I could
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