Into the Fire(83)

The cop said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Sounds like a charmer.”

Evan had given her a loose-handed salute, and she’d smiled wryly in response.

His training had taught him to find quiet where he could, even in the most stressful of circumstances. He kept his eyes closed and breathed. His task right now, in this moment, was to do nothing but occupy his body. The charcoal pills had done their job, ameliorating the effects of the tequila, but the acrid taste of eighty-proof bile remained in his mouth. The light-headedness held on, wobbly shapes floating behind his eyelids.

A beefy deputy rapped him gently on the shoulder, and he opened his eyes. “Patser Hovsepian?”

Evan corrected him with a crisp accent. “Paytsar.”

“Great,” the deputy said, “okay. We’ll be sure to get it perfect before you take the stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.” He flicked two fingers the size of breakfast sausages. “Come with me.”

Evan followed him into the booking room. Stations were set up three deep, sullen men being shuttled through like cattle. A jocker inked with the Aryan Brotherhood clover and trip sixes caught Evan’s eye and flicked his tongue at him lewdly. Ignoring him, Evan looked around, assessing any loose items he might be able to palm and sneak in. A stapler on a desk in the corner. Pen tucked into a clipboard. A computer mouse.

His plan only covered getting in and—ideally—getting back out. He couldn’t know in advance what the precise conditions in the jail would be. When it came to protecting himself and eliminating Benjamin Bedrosov, he had to improvise.

Predictably, any obvious tools or weapons were well out of reach.

The deputy gave Evan a prod, reminding him that he no longer controlled where his body went and what it was allowed to do. He complied readily, not willing to escalate to a situation that increased the odds of a blow to the head.

“Stand over here. Back up. Smile for the birdie.”

Above the stalk of a skinny tripod, a tiny digital camera peered at him like the head of an exotic insect. Evan flashed A-OK signs against his chest, one circle up and one upside down. Armenian Power.

“Hey, dipshit. You sure you want that to be the look the judge sees at arraignment?”

Evan winked at him. There would be no judge, no arraignment. And Joey would have the digital photo wiped from the system within minutes of Evan’s departure. Or—if things went badly—he’d be dead and none of this would matter.

The deputy sighed. “Your funeral.”

The flash hit Evan, burning his eyes. He cringed away drunkenly. The alcohol leaching through the charcoal and the light sensitivity from his concussion made it easy to play the role.

“Hey,” the deputy said. “You okay?”

Evan nodded. The deputy moved him to a bench bolted to the concrete floor. Before him was an electronic fingerprint scanner. The deputy collapsed into a computer station on the far side with an arthritic groan and said, “All ten on the glass.”

Evan pressed his hands onto the wide plate, felt the heat rising through the fingertip adhesives as the light-emitting diodes rolled underneath. The deputy’s monitor was tilted, granting Evan a slanted view of the CLETS database, waiting to spit out Paytsar Hovsepian’s criminal history once the scan results registered.

Evan waited for the impressions laid into the fingerprint films to work.

But the onscreen timer kept spinning. The deputy knocked the side of the monitor in frustration. The false prints wouldn’t register.

A sense of genuine dread descended on Evan, tightening his jaw. All it would take was a momentary computer glitch. The deputy would wipe down his fingerprints, discover the adhesives. And Orphan X, the country’s most wanted former government asset, would no longer have to be hunted and taken down. He’d already have put himself behind bars, delivered himself with a bow. Right on the eve of his retirement.

The deputy tugged a few tissues from a box and swiveled his chair toward Evan.

The computer dinged, accepting the scan.

The deputy turned away and stuffed the tissues back into the box.

Evan eased out a breath through his locked teeth.

The CLETS interface brought up Hovsepian’s prior conviction from high school. The decades-old booking photo showed a dull-eyed kid washed pale from adrenaline, a tangle of hair falling over his stoned eyes.

Evan’s appearance was close enough, especially given that it had been nineteen years since the picture was taken.

The deputy didn’t even bother looking. “You can take your hands off the scanner already.”

Evan had been so tense he’d frozen in place. As he withdrew his fingers, he felt the film on his left pinkie tug.

The adhesive peeled free and clung to the glass plate.

Transparent yet in full sight, it remained curled up from the scanner like a contact lens.

Evan forced himself not to look at it. He set his hands on the table casually. The deputy turned and rested his elbows on either side of the scanner. His breath fluttered the pinkie adhesive.

“All your possessions on the table,” he said.

Evan took out his driver’s license, a few crumpled singles, and some coins. He dropped the change about six inches above the table, trying to make it look unintentional. A nickel rolled off the edge, and the deputy leaned to catch it.

As he dipped to the side, Evan swept his hand across the fingerprint scanner, the gummy adhesive clinging to his knuckle and peeling free. Annoyed, the deputy set the nickel back down atop the sad pile of cash. “Okay. So. Two dollars and seventeen cents. Gearing up for a big night on the town, were you?”