‘That’s Dale, right there,’ said Winter, turning the screen so Gallen could see. It showed a side view of the big man at a second-floor ice machine. He was dressed in a dark polo shirt and dark shorts and the time code had it as 11.52 pm.
‘Bren making a drink before he takes his surveillance shift?’
‘Looks like it,’ said Winter. ‘Let’s find his room.’
Winter found another camera angle, froze the image and turned the screen for Gallen. It showed Bren Dale emerging from a motel door on the second level. The image wasn’t clear enough to see the number on the door.
‘Can we get it clearer, Mike?’ said Winter.
‘Yeah,’ said the Aussie. ‘Take a grab of the door, drop it into Photoshop and click on the button that says Resolve.’
‘Shit,’ said Winter, smiling as he shook his head. ‘You’re running Photoshop?’
As they passed McMahon Stadium, Winter looked up. ‘Room number two-fifteen.’
Keying his cell phone, Gallen asked directory for the Capitol Motel and waited for the connection.
‘Hi, John Green here, financial controller at Akron Precision Machinery, down in Ohio,’ said Gallen, giving his cheeriest mid-western greeting. ‘Could I speak with the manager of the Capitol Motel, please?’
A woman named Lucinda Davies came on the line and Gallen introduced himself again. ‘Listen, wondering if you could help me with some housekeeping at this end?’ said Gallen.
‘Sure, Mr Green. What do you need?’
‘This is embarrassing,’ said Gallen. ‘I’m going through an electronic expenses claim from two of our salespeople who stayed with you last night, in room two-fifteen?’
Gallen heard tapping on a keyboard. ‘Yes, two gentlemen stayed with us, under the name Simon Smith. Is that the party?’
‘Simon — that’s him,’ said Gallen. ‘Top guy in our Rockies division, but, well, this is nothing to boast about.’
‘I’ve seen it all before, Mr Green,’ said the manager. ‘If you’re asking me to help you with a fraud inquiry, I can certainly do that for our corporate clients. I mean, you’re paying the bills, right?’
‘That’s my point exactly, Lucinda,’ said Gallen. ‘Thank you for understanding.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘We’ve had this issue with salespeople claiming on a top-of-the-line rental vehicle, but they’re actually driving a little Toyota.’
‘Driving a hatchback, claiming for a Navigator?’
‘That’s it,’ said Gallen. ‘If I could get the vehicle rego they booked under, I can trace it back with the rental company. We have thirty-five reps on the road. This could be costing us thousands a week.’
‘Okay, Mr Green,’ said Lucinda. ‘The vehicle is a Cadillac Escalade, Colorado plates.’ She read out the plate number which Gallen transcribed on the back of a CAA map of Alberta.
‘But this is weird,’ said Lucinda. ‘You said Akron Precision something?’
‘Precision Machinery, yes,’ said Gallen.
‘Mr Smith paid with cash, but his card imprint was a Visa in the name of Royal Enterprises.’
‘Royal?’ said Gallen. ‘Umm, yeah. That’s our aviation parts division. Listen, thanks for the heads-up. I’m going to get my assistant to call back, set up an account with you guys. Might smooth things in the future.’
Gallen hung up and thought about the conversation. ‘Kenny, go back to the security footage. Look for an Escalade with Colorado plates.’
‘Why does that ring a bell?’ Winter tapped at the laptop.
‘That white guy who escaped. One of the crew behind the Spanish bar in Del Rey? He’s travelling as Simon Smith and his Visa card is in the name of Royal Enterprises.’
‘You got a rego number? ‘
They met the new recruit in a cafe on 8th Street south-west.
From the three names Aaron had provided, Liam Tucker’s fitted best with what Gallen wanted for his fourth man: a retired Marine who’d served in Afghanistan and spent almost three years guarding high-ranking officers in Helmand Province before walking with his pension. Thirty-four years old, a little lost and openly glad to be sharing coffee with some military guys.
‘How’s the ‘burbs?’ said Winter after they’d made their greetings and been served their coffees.
‘Christ.’ Tucker whipped off his Orioles cap and ran his hand over his hair. ‘My brother gets me this job as a mortgage broker and, holy crap, I don’t know how people do it.’
‘Gotta have stamina for them office jobs,’ Ford smiled. ‘All the incoming from behind.’
‘Gets you between the shoulder blades,’ said Winter. ‘You worked personal security detail?’
‘Sure,’ said Tucker, sipping on the coffee and eyeing another table of customers who were hugging and calling each other darling. ‘Worked PSD convoys, mainly out of D-2, and up to Marjah. All the pleasure spots.’
‘Busy up there?’ said Winter.
‘Some,’ said Tucker, not excited about it. ‘It was okay I guess, unless the routes leaked to Towelie, and suddenly there’s no such thing as an abandoned car or a rock on the roadside. It’s IED alley.’
‘But you were doing an electrical trade,’ said Gallen. ‘Before you transferred to an oh-three.’
Liam Tucker turned and looked at him, and Gallen gave him a wink. An 03 occupational speciality — known as an MOS in the Corps — was a combat position like a mortar man, a rifleman or machine gunner. A Marine smart enough to demand an electrical trade did not generally switch to an infantry MOS. It translated to no career when he signed off.
‘Shit,’ said Tucker, slumping back in his chair, slapping his cap on his leg.
‘Didn’t have something to do with this concussion?’ said Gallen.
Winter sat up. ‘The what?’
‘It’s in his file,’ said Gallen. ‘But let’s ask Liam.’
Shaking his head, Tucker looked beaten. ‘Okay, I was two years in and I got concussed playing football. I recovered but I weren’t seeing colours so well.’
Mike Ford laughed. ‘So you couldn’t see if a wire was yellow or red?’
Tucker fiddled with his cap. ‘You know what the Corps’s like, Gerry. They find you’re colour blind and the clipboards take over.’
Gallen nodded. He knew about that particular bureaucratic hell. ‘So you skipped the doctors and became a machine gunner?’
‘Yep.’
‘And then you’re working personal security? ‘ said Gallen. ‘Why? ‘
‘ ‘Cos I was tapped for PSD after my first tour in Afghanistan,’ said Tucker. ‘They needed gunners. I trained in Florida and they threw me in.’
‘You okay?’ said Gallen. ‘I mean, after the shit?’
‘Never did drugs, stopped drinking whisky,’ said Tucker. ‘Got a divorce. That what you mean?’
‘No psych?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Okay, but understand: we work dry, we get hammered later. That work for you, Liam?’
‘Like a dream, boss.’
Gallen dropped Ford and Tucker at Florita’s house as the sun set. It was Sunday night and the security detail was going to co-locate in the house with Florita, drive her to work each morning and act as a bodyguard shadow.
Gallen was nervous, eyes darting to parked cars and people in the street as Aaron opened the door to the large house and ushered in the two bodyguards.
‘I’ll hitch a ride with you,’ said Aaron. ‘Got an address for Mr Flint, our reporter.’
Lighting a smoke on the approach path while Aaron got Ford and Tucker settled, Gallen scanned the street for people in cars and unwelcome eyes. His vision was acute and scattered, zooming from one potential hide to another. The attack in the Britannia Oil yards had put him on edge in a way that the bombing of Durville’s jet had not. The crash in the snow and subsequent events were all reaction and counter-punching — just a blur of survival and necessity. This was stressful in a different way; it was like being a rat in a maze, someone waiting for him to take a wrong turn. Gallen wanted to get out of the maze for a while, have a chat with the watchers. His cell phone rang and Gallen mumbled his hellos on seeing the caller ID.