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Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
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rumblings about Gunderson dabbling in mysticism, but had never taken them seriously. Was Nemo pulling his chain?
“He doesn’t make a big deal about it,” Nemo continued, “but you get him high enough, he’ll start spouting all this ancient Book of the Dead bullshit he picked up from his whack job of an aunt. Reincarnation, mind control, swapping souls and shit … Guy’s convinced he’s got a suite reserved in the afterlife. Tells me, ‘Don’t be afraid to die, Bobby, that’s when all the fun starts.’ ” Nemo snorted again. “Thanks but no thanks, baby. I’ll take my chances right here and now.”
Donovan remembered reading a report in Gunderson’s juvenile file about his wayward aunt, a two-bit fortuneteller. When Gunderson was twelve, she was dragged off to the nut farm after she strangled one of her clients. Proclaiming innocence, she told the arresting officer that the client had committed suicide. That he’d been taunted by “the voices.” When the officer asked her what voices, she told him matter-of-factly, “Why, the voices of the dead, of course.”
If Nemo was on the level, maybe the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree.
“So if Gunderson’s such a head case,” Donovan said, “why join his crew in the first place?”
“Shit, man, I was his crew until Sara and the rest of those idiots showed up. And for all his bullshit, there’s one thing you can say about Alex: he knows how to generate cash.”
“Doesn’t do you a whole lotta good right now.”
“Excuse me while I break down and cry. What’s your point?”
“I think you know,” Donovan said. “Why not use the only leverage you have and tell me where to find him?”
Nemo’s eyes glazed over. “Tell you what. You wanna deal?” He made fists with his shackled hands, then raised the middle finger of each and pointed them at Donovan. “Deal with this.”
Six weeks. Six weeks nursing a wounded leg that still hadn’t healed right, calling in favors from informants, staking out the homes of known associates, looking for something, anything that would lead him to Gunderson … and Donovan had popped a foul.
Finding Bobby Nemo had been pure luck. Nemo’s new girlfriend had flashed a Mormon missionary kid, who, despite the distraction (and Nemo’s freshly grown beard), had recognized a wanted fugitive parked on the naked woman’s sofa. The kid sat on the information for close to two weeks, afraid the incident would either get him in trouble with the Church or with Nemo himself. But he’d finally let good sense get the better of him and picked up the phone.
That was this morning. Donovan and his team had spent half the day staking out Carla Devito’s apartment, then decided to make their move when a take-out man showed up with a couple boxes of Chinese noodles. Donovan had high hopes that nabbing Nemo would get him that much closer to Gunderson, but now Nemo was playing hard-ass.
And there wasn’t much Donovan could do about it.
He slammed out of Interrogation Room 3 and found A.J. waiting for him in the hallway. A.J. had observed Nemo’s display of affection through a two-way glass.
“That was a regular laugh fest,” A.J. said. He looked restless. Ready to get busy. “Think you’ll ever wear him down?”
Donovan shook his head. “Not without a serious breach of his civil rights.”
“I’ll bring the beer if you bring the peanuts.”
Donovan put a hand on A.J.’s shoulder. His muscles were twitching. “Easy, Rambo. That kind of thinking makes the boys from D.C. nervous.”
A.J. smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “But it feels so goddamn good.”
T HE TASK FORCE command center was in motion as usual, a well-oiled machine that pushed forward relentlessly but never seemed to get a lock on a specific path to follow. The harried agents and support staff who populated the place had a purpose but no real sense of direction.
Donovan shared their frustration.
“He doesn’t make a big deal about it,” Nemo continued, “but you get him high enough, he’ll start spouting all this ancient Book of the Dead bullshit he picked up from his whack job of an aunt. Reincarnation, mind control, swapping souls and shit … Guy’s convinced he’s got a suite reserved in the afterlife. Tells me, ‘Don’t be afraid to die, Bobby, that’s when all the fun starts.’ ” Nemo snorted again. “Thanks but no thanks, baby. I’ll take my chances right here and now.”
Donovan remembered reading a report in Gunderson’s juvenile file about his wayward aunt, a two-bit fortuneteller. When Gunderson was twelve, she was dragged off to the nut farm after she strangled one of her clients. Proclaiming innocence, she told the arresting officer that the client had committed suicide. That he’d been taunted by “the voices.” When the officer asked her what voices, she told him matter-of-factly, “Why, the voices of the dead, of course.”
If Nemo was on the level, maybe the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree.
“So if Gunderson’s such a head case,” Donovan said, “why join his crew in the first place?”
“Shit, man, I was his crew until Sara and the rest of those idiots showed up. And for all his bullshit, there’s one thing you can say about Alex: he knows how to generate cash.”
“Doesn’t do you a whole lotta good right now.”
“Excuse me while I break down and cry. What’s your point?”
“I think you know,” Donovan said. “Why not use the only leverage you have and tell me where to find him?”
Nemo’s eyes glazed over. “Tell you what. You wanna deal?” He made fists with his shackled hands, then raised the middle finger of each and pointed them at Donovan. “Deal with this.”
Six weeks. Six weeks nursing a wounded leg that still hadn’t healed right, calling in favors from informants, staking out the homes of known associates, looking for something, anything that would lead him to Gunderson … and Donovan had popped a foul.
Finding Bobby Nemo had been pure luck. Nemo’s new girlfriend had flashed a Mormon missionary kid, who, despite the distraction (and Nemo’s freshly grown beard), had recognized a wanted fugitive parked on the naked woman’s sofa. The kid sat on the information for close to two weeks, afraid the incident would either get him in trouble with the Church or with Nemo himself. But he’d finally let good sense get the better of him and picked up the phone.
That was this morning. Donovan and his team had spent half the day staking out Carla Devito’s apartment, then decided to make their move when a take-out man showed up with a couple boxes of Chinese noodles. Donovan had high hopes that nabbing Nemo would get him that much closer to Gunderson, but now Nemo was playing hard-ass.
And there wasn’t much Donovan could do about it.
He slammed out of Interrogation Room 3 and found A.J. waiting for him in the hallway. A.J. had observed Nemo’s display of affection through a two-way glass.
“That was a regular laugh fest,” A.J. said. He looked restless. Ready to get busy. “Think you’ll ever wear him down?”
Donovan shook his head. “Not without a serious breach of his civil rights.”
“I’ll bring the beer if you bring the peanuts.”
Donovan put a hand on A.J.’s shoulder. His muscles were twitching. “Easy, Rambo. That kind of thinking makes the boys from D.C. nervous.”
A.J. smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “But it feels so goddamn good.”
T HE TASK FORCE command center was in motion as usual, a well-oiled machine that pushed forward relentlessly but never seemed to get a lock on a specific path to follow. The harried agents and support staff who populated the place had a purpose but no real sense of direction.
Donovan shared their frustration.
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