Dear Mr. Maddox,
Per your request, I have attached the coroner’s report for Larry and Sharon Tukenson as a PDF file. Given the circumstances, the bodies were burnt to the bone, and there wasn’t much to investigate. The one interesting thing you’ll note is one of the bones taken from the scene was not human. The unknown bone was eventually identified as a thoracic vertebra from a pig. At first, the question of how this bone got in their vehicle puzzled us. The report concludes that the Tukensons must have been taking a pork chop home in a doggie bag from the dinner they had attended.
Take care,
Leonard G. Pullen
KAPOW—there was number two, staring him right in the face. Mack could feel his heart pumping hard in his chest. He took a couple of deep breaths to relax.
Just then his cell phone rang. He answered shakily, “This is Mack.”
“Mack, it’s Phil Utah.” His voice was muted, strained.
“Yeah, how you doing? You okay? You sound a little—”
“I think you were right, Mack. That guy, Gabriel, was maybe coming for me. I might want your help. I can give you some insight into this problem of ours.”
“Hate to break it to you Phil, but you got some lousy timing there. I’ve been taken off the case.”
“Yeah, Bender told me that.” A pause. “Why?”
“He wasn’t happy with me for going to San Diego on my own and, well, speaking to you. By the way, I’m sorry about that.”
“You were just doing your job. For what it’s worth, I put in a good word to Bender to try to get you back on.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but I’ve started a new case. And it’s big.”
“Yeah, he’d mentioned that, the billionaire deaths. He said you had some pretty interesting theories.”
Mack opened his mouth to share his breakthrough, but his instincts told him not to. “No, it’s really just a training exercise. Henry Barron was a big supporter of the President. Bender thought it was a good idea to look into it.”
“Anything come up?”
“No, just another tragic wrong place-wrong time situation.”
“Well, if you have any ideas on the Hernandez case, I want you to contact me immediately.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help take that guy down.”
“Good man,” said Utah. “We’ll be in touch.”
81
Mack stood anxiously outside the closed door to Bender’s office. Hopped up on his third cup of coffee, his juices were flowing fast. He’d been thinking about the breakthrough in his case all night, and had concluded the best course of action would be to set up twenty-four-hour surveillance teams to watch the remaining six billionaires on the top eleven list. He knew he would have to hard-sell Bender to get that type of support.
He cleared his mind, and feeling sharp, knocked on Bender’s door.
“Hold that cab,” Caroline said as she walked up to him.
At first glance, he almost didn’t recognize her. Her normally straight hair was extravagantly curled; her light natural look had been converted into a flawless painting of base, eye makeup and lipstick. Her red and black dress suit was all business, but seductively tailored and, as casually worn by his partner as it was, suggested a wild kind of business, too. Mack did a double take.
“What do you think?”
“I—I don’t know.”
She smiled and posed like a model on the runway. “Good or bad?”
Even her teeth looked whiter, he thought, as he grasped for something to say.
“You okay?”
“You look … great. What happened?”
“Freddie treated April and I to a complete day of pampering at the Beverly Wilshire. We felt like movie stars.”
“So the new guy’s rich. Great,” Mack said out loud by accident. He then deflected, “Who’s April?”
“A young girl I’ve been helping get off the street. This is important to me. It’s a life I can fix.”
“Huh. Well, you look like a movie star. Better.”
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to notice,” she joked.
The door to Bender’s office opened. “What is this, an office party?”
“No sir,” Mack said quickly. “I wanted to see if you had a couple of minutes to talk.”
“Sure, come in.” Bender took a head-to-toe look at Caroline. “You look… different.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Bender then looked at Mack. “And you look like someone beat you with a carp.”
Mack ignored Bender’s comment and sat down as Bender eased into the chair behind his desk.
“What’s on your mind?” the AD asked.
“I’ve been up all night working on this billionaires case. I believe an assassin was hired to kill all five of the victims.” Mack pulled the manila folder from under his arm and placed it on Bender’s desk. “Possibly more.”
Bender opened the file. “Interesting.”
“Behind my summary page are recaps of files on twenty-two unsolved assassinations that were performed by a profoundly skilled assassin—one who’s never been caught. All these hits and not one solid clue—except the trademark item connecting all the cases.”
Bender closed the file and lifted an eyebrow. “Where’s your evidence?”
Mack took a breath. “I know this sounds odd, but the assassin’s trademark is leaving a raw pork chop at the scene. In all twenty-two of those cases, a pork chop was found in association with the body. I think this assassin has killed our billionaires, too. In Texas, they found a raw pork chop on the floor of Henry Barron’s limo, and in Montana, in the remains of the Tukenson explosion, investigators found a bone from a pork chop mixed with the victims’ skeletal remains.”
Bender eyes narrowed. “How about the other three?”
“At this point, no pork chops have been found at the scenes.”
“Very interesting, Mack, but at this point, it’s just very interesting.”
“Five of the wealthiest people in America have been murdered. And though I haven’t isolated a clear motive, I believe the other six people on the list are potential targets. As a precautionary measure, I recommend we have surveillance teams watch the remaining six families.”
Bender shook his head. “Mack, I like what you’ve done, but at this point we’re just stretched too thin. Between this Hernandez case and all the terror threats we’re following up on, there’s no way I can do that. The best I can do is give you and Caroline some breathing room to investigate further. Figure out who you think is next on the list, and you two go stake them out. If you come up with something concrete, you’ll get all the support you need. But you have to bring me something soon, or I’m pulling you both out to support other cases.”
“Fair enough.” Mack stood. “Thanks for listening, sir.”
“Well, that was quick and painless,” said Caroline. “I didn’t get a word in.”
“He’s prejudiced against this case for some reason.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Come on. You heard him in there. The guy can’t come up with enough stock reasons to take us off this thing. I’ll bet he only said yes to it in the first place because I blindsided him.”
“Well, Sherlock, what do you need me to do? Talk to every pork butcher in the country?”
“Very funny. No.” He stopped walking and turned to her. “There is something though. Remember the gangster I interviewed? K-six?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled at her. “His little sister, this total genius, her life was ruined because of him. I volunteered you to fix it.”
82
Bic sat in the driver’s seat of a yellow cab in the Old Market area of downtown Omaha, pretending to read the Omaha World Herald. He was parked on the southeast corner of an intersection, with an unobstructed view in every direction. Bic played up his role of a slob on a lunch break, working his way th
rough a big ham sandwich. He wore blue jeans with a red Nebraska T-shirt and a red ball cap decorated with a white N.
Quaint mom-and-pop shops and restaurants occupied the bottom storefronts of the eight-to-ten-story brick buildings on all sides of the intersection. Bic’s watch read half past noon, but it was dark as dusk outside. Not a drop of rain had fallen yet, but storm clouds were gathering to the east. In his rearview mirror, he saw a tricky wind pick up a small plastic bag lying in the middle of the street and dance it in slow circles.
Bic figured the crazy weather was to his advantage. When he had cased the area yesterday, people were constantly popping in and out of the little shops and restaurants and the interior passageways that honeycombed the Old Market. Today, however, the streets were mostly bare. There were only a few people out, quickly darting back and forth, hoping not to get caught in the rain. The traffic in the usually busy intersection was much lighter, too.
Bic examined the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wilkes from the manila envelope resting on the passenger seat and slid the photo into his open newspaper. The intel on Wilkes was dead-on. Every Thursday, Sam Wilkes, took his wife of fifty-seven years out to lunch at Jimmy’s in the Old Market. Bic was parked in a metered parking space right in front of Jimmy’s and had confirmed the Wilkes’ arrival ten minutes ago. The multi-billionaire’s well-kept Lincoln Town Car was parked two spots down.
Bic rechecked the photo for verification. In his mid-seventies, Sam Wilkes was a tall, slender, fair-skinned man with a long face and thin lips. His most distinguishing feature was his comb-over: so much hair was flipped over his crown, the thin light-brown strands created a small dome on the top of his head. Penny, or Mrs. Wilkes, was an attractive older lady with healthy-looking shoulder-length white hair, gleaming blue eyes, and a good figure for her age.
The comb-over would be a dead giveaway. Confident both marks were present, Bic reached over into his duffel bag and pulled out a compact remote-control car. Only this toy had a round metallic ring the size of a doughnut set on the top of its shiny chassis. The expensive upgrade was capable of releasing enough voltage in a single massive charge to kill an elephant. The metallic ring was attached to a miniature hydraulics system designed to raise it vertically into the air about ten inches—more than enough to do the job.
Bic peeked over his newspaper and silently scanned the area in all directions. Satisfied no one was around, he cracked open his door just enough to slide the remote-control car directly under his cab. He closed his door, then resumed reading his newspaper and eating his ham sandwich.
Five minutes later, a sight in his peripheral vision startled him.
Bic slowly looked toward the window. He didn’t see anyone. He quickly looked around, wondering if someone was sneaking up on him.
Then he looked down and saw a little brown-haired boy who couldn’t have been older than six or seven. The boy was holding Bic’s remote-control car, looking around as if trying to confirm that the thing had no owner. Stifling a curse, Bic immediately rolled down his window.
“Hey,” he said, “come here with that.”
The boy put the thing down and started to walk away quickly.
“Yo, come here. I’m not gonna hurt you. You like that car? You can have it.”
The kid started and stopped, started and stopped. From the state of his clothes, Bic suspected he didn’t come from much money. Patiently, he said, “But not that one. I need that car.”
The boy bent down and slid the race car back under the taxi.
“Where are your parents?” Bic asked him as he stood up.
“They live back there,” said the boy, jabbing a thumb toward the west side of town. Nothing but concrete and depressed buildings, Bic thought.
He quickly scanned the area for anything else suspicious. “I’ll tell you what, kid. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you some money to get your own car if you promise not to tell anyone I gave it to you—not even your mom.”
The little boy squinted. “What’s the catch?”
Bic smiled. Good kid, smart. Unfortunately, he might go far in the neighborhood he was from.
With some trepidation, Bic handed the boy two $100 bills. “You go to the toy store and tell the person at the register that you want the best remote-control car this money can buy.”
The boy nodded. And Bic enjoyed a feeling he didn’t get to enjoy very often.
“Hurry up. It’s gonna start raining soon.”
The feeling was of warmth like when his mother sang as they drove to church: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.” He remembered feeling it only once since her death—when he had first held little baby Gracie in his hands.
He took a deep breath. Memories of his mom were something he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. He missed her, or at least what he remembered of her. For the first time, he wondered if what he was doing hurt his mom. He was about to kill two Christians who had probably never deliberately hurt anyone their whole lives. The violence he’d seen, that he’d been responsible for— he’d heard some of his kills praying before he took their lives—where was God for them?
You can’t know, his mama had told him. No one can.
If there was a God, there was no way li’l ol’ Bic Green was gonna be able to figure Him out. And if there was doubt, there was hope. It was that gray area, that space of not knowing, where Bic Green had found his strength all these years.
He made up his mind and started the car. He depressed the brake pedal and put the vehicle in reverse. As he turned and looked behind him for other vehicles, his iPhone rang. Sighing, he threw the car in park, picked up the device, and opened his email.
A flash of thunder cracked through the sky as he did so. The violent snap seemed to release the rain pent up in those puffy, dark clouds, and instantly the cab was shrouded in a heavy downpour.
The email was from his employer, and it read:
Great job so far. Your work is impressive.
But there cannot be any deviations in the schedule. Failure to complete all items left on your list in the next six days would be considered a breach, and action against you will be implemented.
For the sake of your fee, and to avoid other consequences, keep to the schedule.
Good luck.
Bic pounded his fist into the dashboard so hard the change in the ashtray rattled.
Other consequences. They knew about Gracie, which meant he had no choice but to go through with the job—at least until he could guarantee her safety. Bic looked at his watch. His targets would be coming out to their vehicle at any moment now.
And where was God?
Dammit.
83
Mack sat back in his cubicle with a frustrated sigh. Looking for this guy was like searching for smoke in a strong wind.
Then a thought occurred to him. If he couldn’t find the killer, maybe he could track down whoever had hired the killer.
He remembered noticing how much the value of some of the dead billionaires’ company stocks had gone down when their deaths were announced. If someone had possessed prior knowledge of their deaths and had sold their stocks short, they would have made a mountain of cash.
At his computer, he reviewed what had happened with Incubus’s stock. The stock had gapped down 27% at the opening bell on the first market day after Larry Tukenson had died. Incubus would have been the perfect short-sale target for anyone who knew Tukenson was going to die.
He then pulled up the short sale data from the week before the Saturday Tukenson was killed. Considering a great quarterly earnings report had come out that week with record insider buying and positive guidance for the remainder of the year, there was no way short sales should have increased.
Except they had. The week before Tukenson died, short sales were up 19.13% That massive, bearish activity made Mack suspicious. Tukenson had died on a Saturday, so his
death could not have impacted the short interests for that week of trading.
He did some quick calculations. To bump the percentage of short interest up by 19.13% in a single week, an additional two million shares of Incubus stock would have been sold short. The week the short sales were made, Incubus stock averaged $76.50 per share. The Monday after Larry died, the share price dropped to $55.84. The two million shares shorted on average the week prior to Larry’s death would have earned their purchasers $20.66 per share, or $41 million in one day.
“Now that’s motive,” Mack muttered.
He needed to find the person or group who had heavily shorted Incubus stock the week before Tukenson’s death. The task would be difficult without the help of the NASD and obtaining clearance through the SEC could take weeks, even months. He couldn’t stand the idea of another person dying while he waited for permission.
He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. “There’s gotta be a way around this.”
He stared blankly at the Incubus data on a financial site when something caught his eye. Out of eighty-nine firms covering the stock, only one had a strong sell recommendation. And when he saw the lead analyst who had made the recommendation, Mack felt like someone had punched him in the gut.
A name from his past stared at him from the screen, practically begging him to crack.
84
The little black car sped across the empty parking spot like a toy dog on wheels. Through the pouring rain, skirting the puddles dappling the pavement, the toy came to rest just under the rear door on the driver’s side of the Lincoln.
Bic looked hard to the right, his eyes concealed behind his sunglasses. The toy car sat unassumingly under the Town Car. He pressed the button on the bottom of the remote, and watched the hydraulic arm raise the metallic doughnut into the air. The ring contacted the underbelly of the vehicle. A different button, and a flash of blue light came from underneath the Town Car as the device released hundreds of high-amperage volts into it. The remote car sped back obediently.
Black Ghost Page 18
