Solar Flares & Tax Snares

by Rachel Ford

  “So you say. But we have no evidence.”

  “We do. Not that she didn’t do the killing, but that she didn’t – well, get the heck out of Dodge: Donaldson.”

  “That’s right. He was alive the next morning. So if the idea was to get away as soon as possible, she hung around until the next day. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “She got lucky with Rodriguez. Maybe she didn’t want to take a chance at breaking and entering twice in a day. Maybe her boss has security cameras.”

  “And maybe she’s not our guy,” Alfred said. “Maybe she’s our first victim.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nance’s idea hadn’t ended there, though. She’d left Alfred to pitch the theory about what Rodriguez’s cryptic calendar entry might mean. But she’d been hard at work on the phones, and she grinned when Alfred returned to his office.

  The taxman knew that grin only too well. He’d seen it plenty of times. It was the grin that meant she’d figured something out or solved some problem. It was the grin of victory. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “I just got off the phone with the PD. They found Godsey’s car in a car park a few blocks from the Donaldson building. And you know what else they found?”

  “No.”

  “Her body. She’s dead, Alfred. Throat cut, same as the others. Nothing from the ME yet, but Harris said she’s been there for a while.”

  All of that sounded terrible, though not unexpected, which made Nance’s grin wildly out of place. So he ventured a, “What else?”

  She frowned at him. “How did you know there was something else?”

  “Because you’re looking way too happy to just be telling me some poor woman got her throat cut. That’s your you-figured-something-out look.”

  A bemused expression crossed her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have a figured-something-out look. But, as it happens…yeah, I figured something out.”

  Her discovery, she explained, related to the dead woman. Based on the surveillance footage from the Donaldson building, and general consensus from Mrs. Godsey’s friends, she got in to work just before eight, and didn’t leave until anywhere from quarter after six to quarter until seven at night. “She had one of three keys to the building: hers, Donaldson’s, and one held by the maintenance and janitorial staff.

  “When the cops found her this morning, she had her purse, and her phone – that had been switched off, by the way. Our killer was making sure we didn’t find her right away. But she didn’t have her keys.

  “Which got me thinking…he must have killed Dianne, and then used her key to get into the building. And it must have been sometime after six.”

  Alfred nodded. The killer would have been offing Rodriguez between five thirty and six. He would have needed time to leave the IRs agent’s house, potentially change his clothes, and travel back to the car park. It would be a tight timeline. Which meant either that the killer was a consummate professional who knew exactly what he was doing, or he’d gotten very, very lucky.

  Nancy’s grin returned. “So I worked with the PD tech guys. They said no one had come in except cleaners all night, which didn’t raise any red flags, right? But there’s more than one door to that building, and not all of them have cameras. They’re all locked, though; and all operated by that key.

  “So I figured he came through one of the side doors, where there are no cameras. He knew where the internal cameras were, too; he avoided all the main, open areas. Which means we have no idea what he looks like. And he’d be way too careful to leave physical evidence behind. So far, the cops have seen nothing.”

  None of which, again, seemed to justify her smile. But Alfred knew Nancy well enough to know that this was all leading somewhere. And as much as he wanted to know where, he forced himself to be patient.

  “Which is why I needed to work with the tech team. Because he left behind a digital footprint, Alfred. Donaldson has guest wi-fi at his building. At half after nine, an hour after the last of the cleaners left the building, a cellphone joined the guest wi-fi. It showed up as connected or connecting until just after eight the next morning. He waited all night for Donaldson to show up, and then he killed him, and got out of the building.”

  “Wait, you’re saying our genius super killer gave himself away because he was what…browsing cat videos while he was waiting to cut someone’s throat?”

  She shook her head. “No. He wasn’t using it. His phone must be set up to automatically connect to whatever available network is in the area. The only traffic we see is incidental. No social media accounts, no web traffic, nothing like that. Just the phone connecting, checking for system updates, that kind of thing.

  “But – and this is the good part – we can work with the cell company to find that phone. They’re already on it.”

  “Well, we can tell who owns it, right?”

  “I doubt it. I’m guessing it’s a burner.”

  Alfred nodded. Once upon a time, he would have no idea what that meant. But he’d had to use one himself on the Landing Site Earth case: a temporary, untraceable phone, bought with cash and disposed of once its purpose had been fulfilled. Which presented another problem. “What if he already got rid of it? If it’s a burner, he won’t keep it around, will he?”

  “Maybe, if it was just for this one job. Or maybe it’s his work phone – anonymous because of the business, but he’s not worried about any of his clients trying to double cross him.”

  “So you think this guy’s a professional assassin? A hitman?”

  She nodded. “I do. The Monday night timeline is way too tight for an amateur to pull off. That’s what Harris said on the phone, and I think he’s right. And whoever this guy is, he did his research on the Donaldson building. He knew what entrance to use, and what rooms to avoid. Which means he either worked there in some kind of security capacity – which still doesn’t explain the timeline – or he knew how to get his hands on those details. Which means, he’s good at this; he’s done it before.

  “And, it squares with what we know. Donaldson was – what did you say Justin called him? A political kingmaker? He was, in his own way. He made careers, and he ended them. He made powerful friends – and powerful enemies.”

  Alfred nodded slowly. “Rich ones, too. They’d have to be rich, to pull off something like this: hiring a contract killer, and all.”

  She nodded again. “It’s just a theory. We’ll know more when we find the guy, of course. But either way, they’re going to be hunting for that phone. And the instant we see it pop up, well, we’ve got our guy.”

  All of which, of course, was most welcome news to the team. Caspersen checked in with Harlow several times throughout the morning. The police chief confirmed what Nance said, and more details as they got them. The phone company’s last ping on the cell phone had been yesterday, downtown. Since then, it had gone silent. But they had it on a watch list, and the instant it reappeared on the network, they’d call the PD. The phone had been paid for with cash in a convenience store two states away, eight months earlier, and activated two months after that. The chances of finding out who bought it without catching the killer were approximately zero. But the fact that the phone had been in service for six months seemed like a promising sign.

  Nance had asked if the burner seemed to be based anywhere, but the answer to that was a disappointing no. It had registered all over the Midwest, and on the East and West Coasts. It had even shown up in Canada a month ago.

  “Our killer gets around,” Harlow said dryly. “I guess the murder business is booming.”

  There was little for the agents and analysts to do at this point but wait for the police or the phone company to get a lucky break. The waiting game proved more difficult than anything. Dixon paced like a caged lion, and guzzled coffee like an addict. Not that Alfred had room to criticize on that front. He was as much an addict as anyone else.

  Still, the other man’s frenetic bursts of energy made him a li
ttle stir crazy. So he decided to leave the so-called war room, and Dixon’s manic pacing, and return to his office. He figured the cops would find the killer soon. But there were still plenty of unanswered questions. How had a financial and tax fraud investigation turned into a series of homicides? What deposits had Dianne Godsey and Agent Rodriguez been looking into?

  And, with nothing but time on his hands, Alfred brought up the files he’d only so far had a chance to glance at, and started looking for his answers. He didn’t know if he’d find anything. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Rodriguez had said deposits, but in what direction? Were they deposits to one of Donaldson’s accounts, or deposits from Donaldson to someone else? He didn’t know.

  But he did know that there would be more than one. Rodriguez had written deposits. But, more than that, the files were extensive. To flag a single transaction as questionable would have been an almost Herculean task. And to expect Dianne Godsey to know anything about one out of thousands of transactions would have been ridiculous.

  Rodriguez had been a damned good agent, with a neat, orderly mind. He wouldn’t have wasted the secretary’s time on a wild goose chase, nor would he have risked her tipping off her boss. No, he’d been investigating something real, something substantial, and something repetitive enough that a personal secretary could be expected to have picked up on it.

  So Alfred perused his lists casually, glancing over them with an idea for patterns. He didn’t allow himself to focus on names or balances or dates. He just saw and let his mind search for patterns.

  Nance accused him sometimes of being like a robot. She meant it as a term of endearment. But Alfred preferred to think of himself more as a supercomputer. Egotistical, maybe.

  But it was more than ego at play. He wasn’t a people person; he didn’t have the kind of innate social gifts that some people were born with. He did alright, if he really tried; he could get by. It wasn’t what his brain was naturally wired to do, though. But when it came to numbers? He’d always had a mind for figures, and numeric analysis. He could see things other people couldn’t. He could find patterns, and spot discrepancies, that any dozen people would have glanced over without a second look. It came as easily to him as making friends came to some people. He figured it was nature’s way of compensating for whatever social deficits he might have been born with. He’d been born smart, not friendly. And he was okay with that.

  Alfred worked for a long while. He started to have a sense of what he was looking at. He spotted the regular customers, and the one-off’s. He got a feel for pre- and post-election cycle revenue – all of which paled, of course, in comparison to the election cycle itself.

  He started to get a sense for the big players in Donaldson’s world. Governor Hitt, of course, being one of the biggest; but there were others. There was a senatorial candidate from the state over, and a few state politicians who had spent big money to win legislative seats that would pay a fraction of what they’d cost. Influence, apparently, was more valuable even than money.

  Alfred kept looking. When something didn’t make sense, he stopped to check it out. Then he went back, and let his mind work its magic.

  He’d been at it for about two hours when one of the patterns stood out to him. It was a series of quarterly payment of a quarter million dollars for consulting fees. The fee was definitely in the higher range, but that wasn’t the only thing that caught the taxman’s eye. He’d been drawn to the payee name: Midwest Liberty and Freedom PAC.

  Donaldson’s own PAC’s hired his firms on a regular basis, during election season and after. So did dozens of other PAC’s supporting dozens of candidates and causes, though the payments tended to balloon in frequency and amount around election season. But neither the payment schedules nor amounts were as consistent as those coming from Midwest Liberty and Freedom.

  Alfred searched his files for the super PAC. He found eleven payments, the first of which dated back almost three years. They’d followed at precise, three-month intervals since: two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars, deposited four times a year since. The PAC had paid Donaldson almost three million dollars in as many years.

  And for what? Consulting fees.

  Alfred frowned at his screen, at the ambiguity of that description. It could mean anything. It could cover any kind of service – or no service at all. It could be another kickback, like the merchandise orders for Governor Hitt that never happened. Or it could be bribe money. Or blackmail money. The kind of blackmail money that someone might kill over.

  And, following that thought, another entered the taxman’s mind: anyone who can pay a million dollars a year to shut someone up can afford to hire a hitman.

  Of course, there were a million and one possible explanations that didn’t involve bribery, blackmail or assassins. So the taxman brought up his browser, and started to type out Midwest Liberty and Freedom PAC. He’d see what details Google could provide, to give him a better sense of what the PAC actually did – and whether this was a wild goose chase, or an actual lead.

  He’d got Midwest typed when a brisk rat-a-tat sounded on his doorframe.

  Alfred started at the unexpectedness of it and glanced up to see Justin standing in the doorway, grinning. “Sorry Freddo…I hope I didn’t scare you. You looked pretty intense there.”

  The taxman frowned at his colleague. “Well, I am working…”

  “I’m just checking in on your case. How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s awesome. Must be exciting work.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I do have a lot of it…”

  “You know – I haven’t told many people this, but I trust you. Anyway, you know how Dixon’s retiring and all that? Well, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Finally got my application in last night.”

  Despite himself, the taxman took the bait. He raised an eyebrow, and asked, “You applied for Dixon’s job?”

  “Damned right. I don’t think there’s anyone more qualified than me. Not to brag, but – let’s face it – I’m the best analyst in the building, and in the prime of my life. Fit as a fiddle, rearing to go.”

  Alfred laughed out loud. He didn’t mean to. But the other man’s ego just overwhelmed his discretion.

  Justin didn’t seem to hear him, though. “And I know Caspersen has a thing with picking her favorites and all that, so it might not go my way. But a guy’s got to try, right? And if there’s any fairness in the process, well, you’re looking at the future Special Agent Lyon.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alfred endured a while longer of Justin’s speculation about that particular nightmare scenario, but then Nance showed up. And he made his escape. “Nance, there you are. Well, let’s go. Sorry Justin, but we’ve got a lunch date to keep.”

  Nance waited until they were around the corner, but then asked, “We do?”

  He nodded. “Oh yes. If it means I don’t have to listen to Justin explaining how he’s the best analyst in the building? You bet we do.”

  Nance needed no further urging than that. They headed to a coffee shop and café that made decent food and excellent lattes. She got – to no great surprise of the taxman’s – a pumpkin spice latte. He got his standard extra shot, extra sweet latte. And they each ordered a cup of soup and a sandwich.

  They’d just taken seats at a corner table when Nance’s phone rang. She pulled it out, and her eyes widened. “It’s the PD.” In a moment, she had the receiver to her ear, saying, “Hello?”

  Alfred couldn’t hear what the voice on the other end said, but she nodded. “Yes, this is Nancy. That’s right. It did?” Her eyes widened. “Here? Still?”

  She offered a few more monosyllabic responses, and then instructed whoever was on the other end of the line to call her as soon as they knew anything at all. Then she hung up, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “That was Will, the IT guy I was working with. Our killer’s phone just pinged off a cell tower heading into town.”

 
That, of course, changed their lunch plans. Alfred headed to the counter, asking to change their order to a to-go. Nancy phoned Caspersen with the update.

  She was waiting for him when he returned with their food. “Caspersen wants us back at the office. She’s going to try to get ahold of Dixon, but he was heading home for a nap.”

  The taxman snorted. “He needed one.”

  She laughed. “Yes. Alright, you want to drive? Just in case I get another call?”

  He nodded, and she tossed over the keys. “So he’s heading back into town?”

  “Yeah. He must have holed up somewhere rural, somewhere where there’s no towers.”

  “What’s he doing in town, though? Shouldn’t he be long gone by now?”

  Nancy shook her head. “I don’t know. I doubt he lives in the area. So…” She frowned. “He must have some kind of unfinished business here.”

  Alfred nodded. “And a hitman with unfinished business? That’s not good news.”

  “No, it’s –” Her phone rang again, and she answered it. “Abbot speaking.”

  The taxman listened to another one-sided conversation. Nance was about details for something, and the person on the other end of the line seemed to promise to send it to her phone. Her cell dinged, and she said, “Got it.” Alfred’s gaze wandered to her and her phone more than, admittedly, it probably should have, considering they were driving through lunch hour traffic.

  Nancy’s brow creased, and she glanced up at the taxman. “The phone company intercepted text messages, sent about twenty minutes ago, between our guy and another burner.”

  “What do they say?”

  She started to read:

  “This is the other guy, the mystery burner. ‘They found the woman. It’s all over the news. Where are you at? We are running out of time.’

  “He writes back, ‘I told you, he’s never alone. He’s either at the office, or with the wife. We need to be patient.’

  “Burner says, ‘We’re out of time for patience. Do it at home. If the wife’s a problem, do her too.’