Top Secret Corpse

by Andria Stone

  Alana glided into the kitchen pulling three hardside pieces of luggage. “Excuse me, detectives.”

  They both turned toward Alana, instantly captivated by her blonde hair piled high, long tanned legs and other ample attributes. Irwin’s eyes roamed over her body from top to toe, carnal thoughts plainly written on his face.

  This was the exact reaction Jack did not enjoy. As his blood pressure escalated, Jack clenched his fists to control it.

  “I need my husband’s assistance. So, if your interrogation is finished…”

  Fuentes, flushed at being caught staring. “Sorry, Mrs. Bennett. We’re through here.”

  Jack didn’t waste any time shoving them out the door. He finished packing the SUV with enough stuff to set up housekeeping in his mother-in-law’s three-car garage. Afterward, he relaxed in a steamy shower before hitting the cool blue sheets.

  Chapter 6 – A To-Do List

  Jack pleaded with Alana to let him drive her into Orlando, but she refused for the tenth time because she didn’t want to borrow a car from her mother while she and the kids were visiting. He waved a gut-wrenching goodbye to his family at 9:15 a.m.

  Back inside, Jack prepared to do battle with the security company, ready to use everything at his disposal not to pay an exorbitant cancelation fee. When the billing manager didn’t try to levy any extra charges, it raised a red flag—and Jack’s suspicions. She scheduled an appointment for one of their employees to disconnect and remove the equipment the following afternoon. Jack would be watching this guy’s every move.

  On a whim, he called Brad with an update. “You have recommendations for security companies?”

  Brad offered a couple of suggestions which carried his stamp of approval.

  “If I need a transmitter detector what kind should I buy?”

  “Don’t bother,” Brad said. “I have a couple. I’ll overnight one to you. It’ll be there in the morning. And, Jack…I’ve uncovered some intel you need to hear. Ogden was a retired FBI agent from D.C. with Top Secret Clearance. He’d worked a lot of cases. Recently, he’d collaborated with a colleague on a cold case. It looks like the cold case caught up with him—in the middle of the night. Keep sending me sitreps. If something happens to you, I’ll need all your intel to finish the job.” The full weight of Brad’s statement hung in the air like an ominous black tombstone.

  “Will do,” Jack said, swearing not to let his guard down.

  He worked until just before noon. As a result of Brad’s warning, Jack brought his gun, put it underneath the armrest in the center console, then drove downtown to Chop Suey Louie’s. The eatery was larger than it looked from the street, with an equal ratio of men to women yet a noticeable lack of Asian customers. It did a brisk lunch trade, catering to office workers in casual Friday attire with a smattering of the courtroom suit crowd. Jack didn’t quite fit in with his navy cargo shorts and flowered Bahama’s shirt. He took the last stool at the counter and ordered the special while he caught snippets of conversations as patrons milled about.

  The place cleared out at half-past one. Jack signaled the older Chinese man busing tables.

  “You the owner?”

  “Yep, I’m Louie Yahui,” he replied with a slight New Jersey twang. “What can I do for ya?”

  “You have a great place here. A neighbor of mine suggested it. His name’s Kyle Ogden. You know him?”

  “Sure, he and a friend eat here two or three times a month.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Rachel Hartman, the other FBI Agent.” As an afterthought, he added, “She’s current, he’s retired, of course.”

  “Oh, yeah, that friend.” Now Jack put the pieces together. Two FBI agents. Hartman, must be the colleague who’d contacted Ogden about one of his old cases—because it coincided with one of her current cases. “How late are you open?”

  “Till ten o’clock. Smaller crowd, but lots of takeouts after work.”

  “Great. I might be back for some takeout later.”

  Jack kept an eye out for nefarious blue cars as he drove to the nearest FBI office, eight miles away in Maitland. Inside the building, he asked to speak with Rachel Hartman. She turned out to be a full-figured, middle-aged brunette who reminded him of Sandra Bullock.

  His first words to her were, “Ogden’s killer attacked me last night.”

  Her eyebrows flew up as her mouth fell open. She hustled him to a small ‘interview’ room where they spoke for over an hour.

  He told her everything—including the blue car—yet omitted Bagdad Brad, because Jack would never give up a fellow Marine. “My wife and kids are staying with her mother, who’s a federal judge in Orlando. I figured it would be the safest place for them.”

  “Helen Reed-Sheridan?” Hartman tapped the table with a well-manicured finger. “That federal judge?”

  He nodded, grinning.

  “Do the detectives know who your mother-in-law is?”

  “I doubt it. They did a background check on me, but probably didn’t go back any farther.”

  “And you feel certain Atlantic Alarm Security is connected?”

  “Don’t you? They were watching me, dammit! There’s no other explanation for the call I received just before I found the body.”

  She leaned back to study him in silence.

  Jack saw the wheels turning in her head. “Okay, Agent Hartman, how about a little quid pro quo? I’d really like to know why Ogden was murdered and why they’re trying to kill me, too.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Bennett, that’s not going to happen.” Hartman raised her hand to stop his objections. “First, you don’t have clearance. Second, local law enforcement doesn’t even have all the pertinent details of the case. Third, the deeper you go, the more dangerous it becomes—for you.”

  He felt more helpless as the minutes ticked by. No matter who he talked to—no one was helping—and things were getting worse.

  “Fine, have it your way.” Jack stood. “But know this, Agent Hartman: I’ll just keep searching. I’m a very enterprising guy. Found you, didn’t I?”

  He strode out ahead of Hartman. She caught his shoulder with a grip stronger than he’d expected. “Mr. Bennett, please wait.”

  Jack spun around to glare at Hartman, hoping to intimidate her. He failed.

  “Thank you for coming by and for providing the additional information.”

  “No problem,” he snapped. “Glad I could help.” Jack wasn’t glad at all—his jaws were so tight he might crack a tooth before he got to the car.

  She held out her right hand. He hesitated, but shook it anyway, surprised when he pulled back a wad of paper. Jack walked to the car with the wadded-up ball of paper getting sweaty in his palm. He started the car and turned on the air, before unfolding the note. His eyes scanned the message.

  CSL @8

  Well, all right. She wanted to meet at Chop Suey Louie’s at eight o’clock tonight. Now he didn’t feel half bad.

  Jack checked his phone for the next item on his To Do List app. He searched for the closest gun range which also sold body armor. One in Orlando offered both. He swung the car up onto I-4 and drove south.

  Shooting during off-peak hours, more-or-less alone in the middle of a weekday afternoon, is much safer than shooting with a bunch of potential knuckleheads. Today, he practiced on accuracy for two hours. Prior to leaving, he bought more ammo for both guns, plus a heavy-duty Kevlar vest. It was always better to be safe than dead.

  Chapter 7 – The Link

  Jack returned home, spoke with Alana and the kids to set their minds at ease, then made an appointment with a new security company for tomorrow afternoon. He cleaned the Glock, pumped iron, and worked the speed bag for a while before hitting the shower. Wearing the vest forced him to dress upscale for Florida—a black shirt featuring big blue parrots over jeans with tan leather huaraches.

  Although Jack arrived a bit early, Agent Hartman sat in a booth waiting for him.

  “You clean up nice.”

&nbs
p; He slid in opposite her. “I’m trying to blend in.”

  “And you’re wearing a vest.”

  “I’m proactive.”

  “You carrying, too?”

  “I have a permit.”

  “I looked you up.”

  Jack shrugged. “Everybody’s doing it these days.”

  A young waitress brought numerous dishes of food.

  “I already ordered. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

  They dug in. Hartman spoke between bites. “I researched Atlantic Alarm Security. It seems to be the lead we were missing.”

  “How so?”

  “Look, Mr. Bennett, right now you’re an innocent bystander. I believe the killer chose your house to throw police off the real reason he was murdered. Ogden’s death has nothing to do with you, so just leave it alone.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Agent Hartman. They aren’t leaving me alone. Can’t you see I’m being played? I need to know what’s coming next.”

  She squirmed, sighed, ran a hand through her hair. “Ogden worked on an international money laundering case just prior to his retirement. They caught almost everyone—except the mastermind. Quite by accident, I ran across some new info here that pointed me to his old case. Ogden’s murder makes it a slam dunk.”

  Hartman spooned more food onto her empty plate. “I’m going to speak hypothetically here. Money laundering is usually supported by various crimes, such as drugs and human trafficking, which is funneled into financial institutions—making it bank fraud. It’s the domino effect. They’re all tied together. The deeper we go, the hairier it gets.”

  Jack heaped more food onto his plate as well. “That kind of money can turn even normal people into killers.”

  “Your tip about Atlantic Alarm Security was golden. The odds of it being tied into every bank identified as part of the scheme is a numerical impossibility.”

  “No shit?” His new vest felt like it had shrunk. Jack pushed his plate away. “And why are they after me? I don’t know anything about them or their business?”

  “You’ve become an annoyance. Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. A fly in the ointment, I suspect. A loose end they need to clip, a—”

  “Enough! I get it.” Jack’s appetite had taken a nose dive. He leaned back, comforted by the gun’s solid presence against his spine. “Do you know who he is?”

  She looked away. “Maybe.”

  “Then arrest the bastard.”

  Feigning interest in other people, she said, “We’re not ready to do that yet.”

  Jack stewed as his blood pressure rose to the boiling point.

  The waitress came over to take their plates.

  A plan formed in an instant. Jack offered the waitress his phone, asking her to take a picture of his dinner companion and himself. She obliged so quickly Hartman didn’t have time to object. When the waitress handed the phone back, Jack concealed the fact he’d hit the Utility app to Record.

  Holding the phone on the table in his left hand, he leaned toward Hartman. “I am a law-abiding, tax-paying veteran. I’ve been attacked by felonious criminals who are known to the FBI. My family’s in danger. I will not fade into the woodwork or move away. I have asked for Agent Hartman’s help, but she’s declined.”

  Jack slid out of the booth, putting some cash on the table. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to arrest this bastard, or kill him—I don’t care which. If you don’t, I’ll do it my damned self. Oh, and by the way, if anything else happens to my family or me, I’ve recorded our conversation. It goes straight to every media outlet in Florida.” He waited to see Hartman’s mouth drop open before he left—without a doubt the second best visual of his day.

  The moment Jack arrived home, he sent the picture and recording to Brad. His phone rang a couple minutes later.

  Brad was laughing. “Man, I see the size of your cajones hasn’t diminished any since Iraq.”

  “Wait until you hear the rest.” Jack gave Brad the full sitrep.

  “I’ll see what’s out there on this missing mastermind while I’m tracking down the banks your security company uses. Anything else?”

  “That oughta do it.”

  “Call me when your package arrives. I’ll walk you through the process. Uh…thought you might want to know I heard from Wardell last night. He bought a new plane. If you need help, we can be there in a couple hours, Jack. Just say the word.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Got a new leg. This one looks real. He sounds good, looks healthy. Still drinking though.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Silence.

  “Yeah, well,” Brad said, resignation in his voice. “Keep your head on a swivel and your guns loaded.”

  Good idea. Jack retrieved the rifle—his father’s .30-06—from the garage, put both guns near the bed. Boris, the Persian, came in to keep him company. Neither Jack nor Boris were used to sleeping alone. Jack decided to read the script of the new Sci-fi TV pilot for clues as to how his robots should work. Soon, he’d nodded off with Boris curled up next to him.

  Chapter 8 – Precarious States

  Jack woke up refreshed.

  Then he smelled smoke.

  Phone in one hand and gun in the other, he hunted for the source. On the outside of his bedroom wall, he found a small fire burning in a metal bucket.

  Sonofabitch. They weren’t going to let up.

  Jack checked the time. Six thirty-three a.m. He called Detective Fuentes.

  “Mr. Bennett?”

  “Yes, Detective. Someone tried to set my house on fire this morning.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  After taking a picture of the bucket fire, he dumped handfuls of dirt in the pail to put it out.

  A passing car slowed to a crawl.

  Jack looked down at himself: phone, gun, smoking bucket, black boxers—it’s a good thing he hadn’t slept naked. He dressed with enough time to make coffee.

  Fuentes arrived—alone.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  Fuentes tried not to smile. “Irwin got mugged last night.”

  “What a shame.” Jack bit his lip. “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

  Both men cracked up as Fuentes accepted a mug of coffee.

  “It might have been someone he pissed off, or a complete stranger. We don’t really know.” Fuentes shrugged, spreading his hands wide.

  “Follow me,” Jack said, leading him to the master bedroom. “You smell the smoke?”

  The detective sniffed, moving toward the wall. “Sure do. It’s coming from over here.”

  They walked outside. Jack pointed to the bucket. “They weren’t trying to burn down the house, but the last time I woke up to smoke was in Iraq. You’re dead if you don’t move.”

  Fuentes also took pictures. “Let’s see what’s inside.” He turned the bucket over on the grass, sifting through the contents with his pen. “Rags, twigs…oh?” He poked at a burnt pink thing.

  Jack’s heart stopped. Fear coursed through his veins.

  “A barrette.” He grabbed it. “Lili’s barrette. This is a warning—my family’s next.” Jack propelled Fuentes to his car. “Find these scumbags—before I do!”

  Time to call the Matriarch.

  Jack phoned Helen. It took twelve minutes of non-stop monologue to give her a complete report, excluding Brad’s part, which ended in a rapid-fire question-and-answer session. Jack finally said, “I promised to keep Alana and the kids safe. I’m truly sorry, Helen, for miscalculating the seriousness of this situation. It won’t happen again.”

  “I believe you, Jack. We’ve all made a few regrettable decisions.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll send my daughter and grandchildren to an undisclosed location—immediately—under guard. Even if I caught this case, the fact that a dead FBI agent was found in your pool—not to mention the related attempt on your life—is clearly cause for my recusal. I have murder, money laundering and bank fraud for breakfast, so I
do wield a big stick. I fully intend to rattle some cages over at the FBI this morning.”

  “If they come for me again, Helen…you may have to bail me out of jail.”

  “I’ll deal with it, Jack. Family comes first.” She spoke from experience.

  Helen’s husband, Wesley Sheridan Ph.D., Dean of Sciences at the University of Central Florida, had been killed by a drunken teenager joyriding at ninety-five miles an hour in a stolen car. The case made headlines for months, primarily because the young privileged criminal happened to be the son of a prominent attorney. The eighteen-year-old had been sentenced to life. No other verdict applied since it was his second DUI offense, compounded by the esteemed victim being spouse to a sitting Federal Judge. A year later, the kid murdered a prison inmate, for which he received another life sentence. His parents divorced. The father moved to Montana. Such is life—and death. Two precarious states with which both Helen and Jack were intimately familiar.

  Alana called, crying because she didn’t want to leave, although, down deep, she accepted it as the right decision. “I know you, Jack. I know what you want to do. I’m just asking you to please, please, please be careful—for us.” His wife knew how to get her point across.

  “I promise, babe. No heroics.” He hated to hear her cry. It tore his heart out. He felt guilty already, knowing full well he might be forced to do things that would turn her hair gray if she ever found out about them.

  The doorbell chimed. His overnight delivery from Brad had arrived. According to instructions, the gadget detected hardware surveillance devices, plus software surveillance techniques—so, it found GPS trackers, landline bugs, and most cellphone spyware, without providing notification to the eavesdropper.

  Handy little gadget. Just for kicks, Jack tested it on his car. Five minutes later, a light on the handheld device flashed red. He reached underneath the rear passenger wheel well, touched a small foreign object and pulled it out.

  “Oh hell no.” Jack’s anger spiked as he examined the lipstick-sized bug. How long had it been there? Had they done it during his vacation? When he was downtown yesterday? At the FBI office?