Researching the newspaper records, I discovered
Loughlin had pled insanity, his lawyer making the case that Loughlin still suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the military, and that his client was better served under psychiatric supervision than under our federal prison system.
Loughlin had been returning home from a movie when a homeless man approached him on the street. After asking for change and being denied, the man placed his hand on Loughlin’s shoulder. The ex-Special Forces agent then threw the man to the ground and pressed his boot against the man’s neck until his larynx was crushed under the force.
Police testified that when they arrived on the scene,
Loughlin was sitting on the curb by the body, crying.
Nevertheless, the judge disagreed that Frank was missing his marbles, and now the man who once fought for the
United States was rotting in one of its very own jail cells.
Not the kind of irony that brings a smile to your face.
Seeing as how Frank Loughlin couldn’t be involved in this unless he somehow gained the ability to walk through walls, cross state borders and look like one of his former squad mates (a possibility considering the amount of drastic plastic surgery you see in New York), I went to find Jack to see if he had any more luck.
I found him at his desk, on the phone, writing on a notepad.
He didn’t pay me any attention, just kept nodding as though the person on the other line could be persuaded by his nonverbal approval. I took that moment to glance around Jack’s desk.
He’d been back for such a short amount of time, and since then he’d done nothing to make his desk more personal, nothing to show that a human being actually worked, breathed and dwelled there.
I wasn’t the most sensitive guy in the world and I had no need to plaster my workspace with pictures of every living relative, every birthday party and a child from every conceivable camera angle, but you could walk by my desk and know that somebody took the time to make it more habitable.
There was a photo of Amanda and me taken a few years ago at a concert at Jones Beach. I had a clipping of the first article I ever published in the Gazette, and the first piece I ever published in the Bend Bulletin from back in the day when I was cutting my teeth.
Those articles were steps to me. Chapters in a life and career. I wasn’t sure what the next clipping would be. I supposed I would only know when, well, I knew.
Finally Jack hung up the phone and turned to me.
“Whaddaya got?”
“Very little,” I said. “Three of my six are still alive.
One of them is in prison, one has no records of pretty much anything, and Rex Malloy hasn’t been heard from in almost fifteen years. The kicker, though, is that Chester
Malloy is dead.”
“I had a feeling,” Jack said.
“Turns out the older brother was killed in action in
Panama. He was in a transport vehicle with his brother Rex,
Eve Ramos and William Hollinsworth when they made a wrong turn and ended up on a street not far from Noriega’s headquarters. They were approached by members of the
PDF who tried to detain them, but when the squad resisted they opened fire. As far as I can tell Chester Malloy was the only casualty, but according to news reports, all four members of the team were seriously injured.”
Jack stroked his beard, thinking. Either that or he was ignoring me. But since I doubted that, he just continued to stroke his beard.
“That give you good luck?” I asked.
“Been doing this my whole adult life. So depending on your perspective, probably not.”
“What did you find out?”
“Well, not as much as you, but between the two of us
I think we know exactly where to go.”
“What did you find?”
“Of my five squad members, four are dead. The only living Bravo Detachment member is Bill Hollinsworth.
Hollinsworth was deployed as a Special Reconnaissance officer. His job was to gather intelligence on the enemy and their tactics.”
“This is the guy who was in the car with the Malloys when they came under fire.”
“Exactly right. And get this. Hollinsworth is a professor of American history, post-World War II at Columbia.”
“What you learn in war you teach to future generations,” I said.
“If he was in Panama, he probably knows Rex Malloy.
I called over there. Hollinsworth has office hours today until six.”
“We should meet with him right away,” I said.
“No worries, Henry. I already called the history department and they said he never leaves until six on the dot. And apparently he’s not the easiest guy to get along with, because the lady who answered the phone seemed rather shocked that we wanted to meet with him. She said students steer clear of Hollinsworth like you do from matching clothes.”
“Or you from denture cream,” I said.
“Go screw yourself,” Jack said. “Come on, let’s see why this guy’s friend is poisoning our city.”
36
As soon as Morgan Isaacs got off the subway to head home, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but picked it up anyway, figuring after all the money he and Theo made that day everything in his life was taking a turn for the better.
He couldn’t believe how well this new drug, these small black rocks called the Darkness, were selling. It seemed every customer had either bought recently and needed a refill, or heard about it from a friend and wanted a go. It thrilled Morgan to no end that he was carrying a product that was so desired. It made him feel powerful again, for the first time since everything was snatched from him so unfairly.
To Morgan, he wouldn’t trade that feeling away for anything. And he would do anything to make sure it never left him.
The sun was beginning to descend, and the Manhattan skyline looked a gorgeous dark blue in the evening sky.
For months, Morgan wondered how long he would be able to look at that view, if his lack of employment would force him to relocate, take some job outside the city where he’d be a nobody, a nothing, working for a company that the Wall Street Journal barely knew existed, a company whose CEO wore a cowboy hat rather than a three-piece suit. Where the offices were decorated with shag carpeting and the secretaries were all fifty and overweight.
That was a world Morgan refused to live in.
So he took in the crisp air, and remembered why he fell in love with this city in the first place. And he thanked his benefactors for giving him the chance to stay.
“Hello?” he said.
“Morgan, it’s Chester.”
“Oh, hey, what’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know I talked to Leonard, and he told me you and Goggins cleared almost twenty grand today. That’s quite a haul.”
Morgan smiled. He was well aware of how much money they were bringing in, but he’d learned one thing in business and that was never to brag to your boss about how well you were doing. At the end of the month, when all the receipts were tallied up, you’d get all the praise you needed. Braggarts were so nineties.
So to hear this from Chester during his first week of work, to Morgan that was all the praise he’d need for a month.
“I know you haven’t received a paycheck yet,” Chester said, “but you deserve a bonus.”
Morgan’s jaw dropped. He stopped walking and leaned up against a mailbox. Then he had to move when a man asked him to move so he could deposit a letter.
“I…I don’t know what to say… Thanks, I guess.”
“You’ve earned it,” Chester said. “But you will need to do one thing for me.”
“Anything.”
“I’m glad to hear that. And if you do this for me, you’ll get a hundred grand on the spot. I’ll need you to sign one piece of paper, for tax purposes, but you’ll have six figures to play with by the time you’re hungry for dinner tonight.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”