Formerly Fingerman (9 page)

Someone had declared checkmate in a game Brad had no idea he was even playing.

There was only one vine left.

“I saw it all.”

Brad had been sitting in Brittany's office for half an hour before she came back from lunch. This dated, beige utilitarian workspace was all he had in the entire universe. His apartment was forever tainted by cable guy sex. Advertising had broken up with him without so much as a sort-of sincere
It's not you, it's me
speech. Chuck the ass manager most likely already had some brand new loser in Brad's chicken outfit. Brad was homeless. Physically and psychologically, simply untethered. So he sat and waited for Brittany, imagining her as his new best friend and tour guide for the world he was about to enter.

The time alone gave him an opportunity to try out a few clichés to help him get his bearings in this freshly minted reality.

I should have seen this coming
.

Hmmm. Nope. Looking back there had been no signs of infidelity on Gracie's end. They talked. They laughed. They rarely fought. She leaned on him when times were tough. Their sex life was good. Certainly, if we're comparing individual scores, Brad's wasn't as good as Gracie's. But as a theoretically monogamous couple, there had been nothing terribly obvious to indicate she was looking for more than he could offer. From what he could tell, she adored him. The truth is he should not have seen this coming.

It's for the better.

Another swing and a miss. As devastated and angry as he was, Brad was still in love with Gracie. His opinion of her moral constitution had somewhat diminished, but there was no denying the attraction of soul mates and, even this far into the marriage, he still felt a bit of a tingle when she laughed at his jokes and kissed him before she got out of bed in the morning. Granted, he had grossly misinterpreted her devotion to both him and the institution of matrimony, but love is love, goddammit. It just happened to be buried at the moment by a dung pile of shame and self-pity. And once those faded, he was well aware that he would be left to deal with the raw nerves that had been exposed by infidelity. It was safe to say that a full and completely healthy recovery was a matter of years. Or decades. So, no. This was not for the better.

Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger.

Fair enough, but how strong did Brad care to get? He wasn't all too sure he wanted to increase his strength in the first place. And since he didn't have a choice in the matter, now what? So this emotional beat down was going to give him super strength. To do what? Take more beatings?

This is why Brad hated clichés.

“You saw it all?”

Just to be sure, Brittany asked him exactly what it was he was talking about.

“The murder or whatever. I saw it all. And I'll testify.”

“What's going on, Brad?”

“I was scared of Frank Fortunato. Remember?” He mimicked Frank's I'm-going-to-get-you scowl. “So I lied. But now I'm ready to testify.”

“Just like that?”

Well, no Brittany, not just like that. Let me tell you about the DIY Kama Sutra clinic I witnessed on my brand-new nine-hundred-thread-count sheets this afternoon. Or the sound of a recently flourishing career getting flushed down the toilet once and for all. Or how it feels to have to trust a complete stranger with the rest of your stupid life, because if you stay still too long Zeppo Corleone is going to stick something sharp through the soft spot on the back of your skull. Shaddup, you.

The just-like-that justifications were none of her G.D. business so Brad skipped ahead to the next action item on his agenda.

“Well, there's one thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

This was it, right? It had to be. If not this, where would he go? What could he hope for? An open marriage with the utility workers who service his apartment? A promotion to Senior Chicken Suit Guy? Do they sell bulletproof wigs? No, thanks.

“Tell me again about the Witness Protection Program.”

“Did somebody call for a plumber?”

“Why yes, I really need some help cleaning my pipes.”

The Facial Action Coding System was developed in 1976 by Paul Ekman and Wallace Friesen to taxonomize human facial expressions. The system defines and classifies various contractions or relaxations of one or more muscles of the face. These are called Action Units. There are thirty-two of them, and they can appear and be recognized in many different combinations. Today, the coding system is a standard tool employed by psychologists, detectives, and animators to dissect and understand human behavior, analyze emotions and, in the case of officers of the law, determine when persons of interest are lying.

Based on observations of her frontalis, pars lateralis, zygomaticus minor, and orbicularis oris, it was clear the woman on the monitor, despite her enthusiasm, was not telling the truth. There was no chance she had called for a plumber. For that matter, the plumber unzipping his pants in her doorway was no plumber at all. Look at his buccinator and his levator labii superioris. Ha! Fat chance.

Not that this was a shock. The video Christopher Stumberg had decided to study that night had been plucked from the Classic selection of the website that hosted it. Most of these were works of fiction, performed by terrible actors. But they made for interesting analysis. The site had a huge library of video and to really learn the Facial Action Coding System, you had to watch a lot of faces. The toughest reads were found in the Amateur section. There was almost never a story to them beyond a web cam accidentally left on, or someone saying, “You're going to erase this afterward, right?” and the participants were generally happy to be involved, so there wasn't a lot of lying to be found.

The actors in the classic videos were more of a challenge. They had the subtleties of Facial Action Units down. Probably a subconscious residual of a childhood surrounded by hustlers, junkies, and liars. He was making assumptions here, but it seemed logical. There was a reason they got into porn.

Christopher backed up the footage about thirty seconds. Actually, on closer inspection, while the lady of the house was lying about making the phone call to the plumber, she did appear to genuinely want some help with her pipes. Interesting.

A hair over six foot three and roughly two hundred forty pounds, Christopher Stumberg was a thick, muscular presence who had become accustomed to answering to, appropriately enough, the name “Stump.”

Stump had played his college ball at Slippery Rock (tight end with occasional punt-return duties), although the school's initial interest in him had been for his state champion wrestling prowess. Despite offers to try out for various teams in the NFL, Stump had decided to put his honors degree in sociology to good use.

He was now a U.S. marshal inspector with fifteen years on the job and a reputation for being an oddball with eccentric methods. He was also considered to be one of the best marshals in the history of the Witness Protection Program, so his quirky tactics tended to be overlooked. Stump lived to make witnesses disappear, in a good way. Mob turncoats, former molls, and ex-hit men could all thank Stump for their new lives as anonymous accountants, nameless butchers, and forgettable checkout clerks. He placed them all around the country through his bizarre secret network of business contacts. And he had never lost one.

There were records of where Stump's witnesses now lived, but they were kept in a locked vault in a basement somewhere in Brooklyn. The files were written in a code known to no more than a dozen people with top security clearance. But the more efficient and reliable file system was deep in the back of Stump's brain. Off the top of his head he could tell you the new names, locations, and occupations of all one hundred and twenty-four witnesses he had placed during his tenure. He could. But he wouldn't.

Stump loved his job and never stopped trying to improve himself in an insatiable drive to become a better marshal. A student of nine different martial arts since the age of twelve, he balanced his warrior side with a rigorous study of Buddhism, knitting, cooking, and gardening. And, of course, the Facial Action Coding System.

His newest accomplishment was the mastery of Leonardo da Vinci's revolutionary polyphasic sleep routine—twenty minutes of power napping for every four hours awake. Stump slept under two hours a day. It was an amazingly effective and efficient lifestyle, and he now regarded the old saw about getting a good night's sleep as a cop-out for weaklings.

When the call from Brittany came, he was ready. Because Stump was always ready.

Brittany took Brad the long way to the conference room. As she'd hoped, Anfernee was not in his office when she had called to let him know her star witness had decided to cooperate. She left a message with the highlights and promised a full report soon. Rather than call his mobile phone, she opted to continue with Brad's debriefing. Anfernee would find her soon enough. If he didn't get her voice mail immediately, certainly word would spread around the office. Fellow agents were already congratulating and high-fiving her as she paraded Brad through the halls.

Her hope of hopes was to run into Anfernee on the way and casually reinforce her ownership of the case in a more public forum than his office. So much of the behind-the-scenes work of law enforcement was politics and showmanship. Naturally, Anfernee would start putting his fingerprints all over Brad (most likely by referring to himself by some stupid, obvious nickname) but the damage had been done. Everyone in the office that day knew she had landed the big one and Anfernee was nowhere to be found. As if that weren't enough, there was the anticipation of watching the news seep into Anfernee's skin in person. Mmmmm, delish.

“The Witness Protection Program is the premier relocation organization in the world. We've had over eight thousand witnesses in our system with a one hundred percent success rate.”

“A hundred percent?”

“As long as you stay in our system and follow our program, nothing can happen to you.”

“As long as I stay in your system. Does that mean that some people leave?”

“Yes. Some.”

“What happens to them?”

“They usually die.”

Brittany and Brad turned a corner to find a very secure door. Brittany waved her ID across a sensor at the side, a beep rang, sounding like the bell signaling the beginning of the next stage of her life, and swept her arm toward the door.

“Shall we?”

Somewhere on the other side of the building, Anfernee finally returned from lunch and checked his voice mail. After the message confirming his five thirty massage, and before the call from his mother wondering if he tried her lemon quinoa recipe, was the call from Brittany—
Project Fancypants
had been a success. This was good. A nice bullet point for the old résumé. Hello Mr. Tailor of
Project Fancypants
.

Anfernee erased the message and pulled the printed version of Brittany's proposal from his bottom left drawer. He signed the blank line marked “Approved” and put last week's date next to it before sliding the paperwork into a manila envelope marked “Confidential.” He dropped the envelope in his out box and yelled to his assistant.

“Candice! Why didn't this go out yet?”

Brittany and Brad entered the conference room to find Stump already waiting for them.

“Brad Fingerman, I'd like you to meet your new best friend, U.S. Marshal Inspector Christopher Stumberg. Stump.”

Stump was silent. Not because he was shy. He just didn't see the point in idle conversation. This, combined with his natural instinct to constantly observe and be aware of his surroundings, caused him to come across as downright deadpan. He located Brad's corrugator supercilii, orbicularis oculi, and pars palpebralis and waited for him to speak.

“Uh, nice to meet you?”

Brad stuck out his hand. Stump moved to shake it, then grabbed Brad's wrist in a vice-like lock.

“Dude—!” was all Brad could get out before his body snapped to the left to accommodate Stump's expert manipulation. Stump whipped Brad around, placed his foot on the back of Brad's knee, and pushed slightly to crumple him into complete submission.

Brad managed to look up and wheeze at Brittany.

“You're okay with this?”

Actually she was.

“Stump is a little unorthodox. But I trust him with my life. And my back. Do you mind?”

She turned away from the mugging in front of her. Stump released Brad and stepped up to bear hug Brittany.

“You ready?”

She nodded, and Stump lifted up as he squeezed. Brittany's back cracked in a series of muffled pops.

“Ahhh. You are good.”

Brad stood and rubbed his elbow as he stared incredulously at Stump.

“This is protecting me? You could have broken my arm.”

“But I didn't.”

“But . . .”

“In fact, you're not even hurt at all.”

“Well . . .”

“I'm pretty sure you got a nice realignment out of that too, didn't you?”

Brad rolled his back. It did feel better.

“'Kay. But what was the point?”

“You need to trust me. So you need to know what I'm capable of. Anyone gets near you, I can do far worse than that.”

“All right, but no more chop sockey on me. You made your point. For the record,
I believe you can kill me
. Okay?”

Stump grinned.

“Great.”

It was all part of Stump's system. Not everyone got the thrown-down-how-do-you-do handshake. Stump adapted his program to the client. In this case, he sensed the tiniest bit of arrogance in Brad's gait. No point in letting that gain any traction.

Stump had no interest in being Brad's friend. That wasn't his job. His job was to protect a government witness. And to do that, he couldn't have Brad second-guessing him. He had to appear to know more about keeping Brad alive than Brad did. And if that meant instilling in Brad a profound fear that his own bodyguard was capable of killing him, then that's what had to happen. Also it was kind of fun.