Candidate for Murder

by Lauren Carr

  “I didn’t know she was going to die!” Erin said.

  “You wanted to give him a step-by-step play of how unbalanced Nancy was,” Mac said. “You knew that if you didn’t call him, she would just come back, and everything would be fine—no harm done. But if you did call in the midst of the crisis, he would see for himself that his candidate needed to be replaced—and needed to be replaced quickly.”

  “Are we right, George?” David asked.

  George Ward nodded his head.

  “Hugh went to go find her and then came back and said that he had found her down by the lake,” Erin said. “He said that one of the fanatics who’d threatened her must have found her and bashed her brains in.”

  “That’s what he said?” Mac looked from Erin to David and the sheriff.

  “That’s what Hugh told you?” David asked.

  “Hugh told us he never found her,” the sheriff said.

  “That was a lie,” Erin said with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “He told me that he found her down at the lake and her head had been bashed in with a rock.”

  David turned and whispered to Mac and Sheriff Turow. “The way Nancy’s body was found, she was lying with her head facedown in the water. If Hugh had really found her like that in the dark, he would’ve assumed that she’d drowned.”

  “The only way Hugh could’ve known that she’d been hit in the head with a rock would’ve been by hitting her with it,” Mac said.

  “Where is Hugh?” Sheriff Turow asked.

  “He left this afternoon,” Erin said.

  “This afternoon?” David asked.

  “After you guys had finished questioning him. He said that you guys had told him that he was cleared and could go. So he came home and packed a suitcase and left.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Spencer Police Department

  David was on one phone putting out a BOLO—a “be on the lookout”—for Hugh Vance, who was a suspect in the murder of his sister, while Mac was sitting behind Bogie at a computer doing a search for airline reservations. Everyone was talking at once when Archie called Mac on his cell.

  “We just found the mastermind for the money laundering at Braxton Charities,” Archie said. “It was Hugh Vance. Nancy was just a front man—or, rather, a front woman. Hugh Vance did all of the moving around of the funds—”

  “And he killed his sister,” Mac said. “We’ve got a BOLO out for him right now. He chartered a plane from McHenry to Chicago. Now we’re trying to find out where he’s going from there. He has to be running.”

  “He’s got an alias,” Archie said.

  “How’d you find that?”

  “Once I found out that he was in charge—”

  “We need to know his alias,” Mac said.

  “Van Kruger,” Archie said. “And he’s got a big bank account in the Cook Islands, so that’s where he’ll be heading, because that’s where the bulk of his money is.”

  “That’s in the South Pacific,” Bogie said while Archie continued to tell them about her and Dallas’ discoveries. “There won’t be any direct flights there from Chicago, so he’ll have to take a connecting flight.”

  “Try looking at flights to Australia,” Mac said.

  “He’s got, like, thirty-one and a half million dollars stashed away there,” Archie said. “He also bought an estate on one of the islands about four years ago—”

  “Here!” Bogie practically jumped out of his chair while pointing at the screen. “Chicago to Sydney.”

  David relayed the message to airport security. “Bogie, what’s the flight and gate?”

  Thanking Archie for her help, Mac disconnected the call without realizing that she was still excitedly telling him about Caleb Montgomery turning over Sandy Burr’s research. They could tell by Bogie’s expression that what he was reading on the computer screen was not good news.

  “He’s gone,” Mac said.

  Bogie nodded his head. “Plane took off two hours ago.”

  Everyone visibly slumped.

  Mac read the flight itinerary over Bogie’s shoulder. “Well, that makes it more difficult, but it’s not impossible.” He picked up his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button. When the call was picked up, Mac said, “Remember when you told me that if I ever needed anything, I could just call? Well, I need something, and I’m calling.”

  “Sure, that won’t be any problem,” Murphy said into his cell phone. “But don’t forget to gas it up when you’re done.”

  The back door of the limousine opened.

  “Gotta go.” Murphy disconnected the call and slipped the phone into the case on his utility belt, which held his double holster, as the woman in the red pantsuit climbed into the back of her limousine.

  Startled to see the young man dressed in black waiting for her in the seat facing away from the driver, Camille Jurvetson stopped. Her plump frame made her incapable of turning around fast enough to curse her security detail before he closed the door on her.

  “Who the hell are you, and how did you get into my limo?”

  “I have friends,” Murphy said.

  “So do I.” She plopped down across from him. Her eyes, which were small to begin with, disappeared in her bloated face, which was weathered after years of manipulating and maneuvering her way to the top of what had once been a man’s game. Every setback she had suffered while working to achieve her goal was etched into her face.

  “We have some mutual friends,” Murphy said. “I just left one of them. Newt Wallace.”

  For a second, Murphy was able to see her eyes widen in surprise. She regained her demeanor quickly. “He wasn’t in the morning briefing,” she said. “Is he sick?”

  “He’s in protective custody.”

  Adopting an expression of concern, she folded her hands in her lap. “What did Newt get himself into?”

  “He trusted the wrong person.”

  She offered what was supposed to be a demure, even motherly smile. “Well, we are in the spy game. Even the most experienced intelligence agents can fall victim to a particularly cunning adversary who pretends to be their ally.”

  “Like their mentor?” Murphy asked.

  She gasped. Her hand flew to her chest. “You don’t think I—”

  “Newt Wallace is not as naïve as you think he is,” Murphy said. “All of the years that you were fast-tracking your rise to the top at the agency, you conned everyone into thinking that you had brilliant deductive reasoning—that you were able to piece together the information that came in from the agents in the field to figure out who the key figures were and where the most important targets were located.” He shook his head. “Your mentors and bosses all thought you were a hotshot agent who they were lucky to have on their side. When in reality”—he leaned toward her—“you’re nothing more than a lowly muck-eating traitor to your country and fellow agents.”

  She held her expression, which was one of shock, long enough for Murphy to see that she was launching into a well-rehearsed performance. In all of the years that she had been trading secrets, she’d known that his accusation could surface eventually. “I don’t know what Wallace told you—”

  “He recorded your phone conversation yesterday.”

  The demure smile fell.

  “You know the one,” he said. “The one where you told him that he didn’t have the stomach to make it to the big time after he called you out for trading information about our undercover agents—for putting our people in danger and getting our people killed—to advance your own career.”

  “Those were hard choices that had to be made, and I made them!” With each word, she jabbed her finger at him.

  “You don’t deny giving classified information to foreign agents,” Murphy said.

  “Everyone does it!”

  “Four agents!” Murphy held up his han
d and showed her four fingers. “Four agents! That’s how many agents Wallace was able to track down who had been killed due to your making deals with our enemies! Four brave Americans—all of whom had families—were serving their country, and they died because you blew their covers, abandoned them, and let them die out in the field!”

  Her voice sounded like the hiss of a demon. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “After Tawkeel Said and his handler were captured, Newt Wallace recalled your asking him about what agency operation was going down in Brussels and which agents were involved. He gave you the file with everything in it. Seventy-two hours later, Said’s cover had been blown, his handler had been tortured to death, and you had learned the current location of ISIS’s number-three man and his compound.”

  “They offered it to me,” she said.

  “Who offered it to you? ISIS’s number-four man? The one who moved up to fill the number-three slot after you had his competition taken out?”

  Her silence brought a slow grin to Murphy’s face. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? Terrorists can be ambitious, too. The number-four guy, who Tawkeel had gone undercover to identify and locate, came to you. You’d been in contact with him all along—helping each other move up the ladder. He’d give you information, and you’d use it to make yourself look good to the folks on the seventh floor.” He cocked his head at her. “You look like a smart woman. I think you knew that your source was using you. High up in ISIS, he would give you information that he knew would make you look good while helping him move up in his organization. Because you would use his information to eliminate his competition. And you’d do the same. Of course, if your source got captured, then you’d be up a creek and you couldn’t have that. So you’d pass on information that would help him evade capture—like information about our agents who were moving in on him—even if it meant our people ending up tortured to death.”

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” Murphy said. “A traitor to our country.”

  “A traitor with the whole CIA behind her.” She held up her hand with her first two fingers crossed. “I am like this with the front-runner for president of the United States. She’s going to make me Director of Central Intelligence. Do you honestly think anyone is going to believe a disgruntled CIA employee over me? If anyone does, do you think they’re going to stand in the way of the appointment of the first woman DCI?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not as naïve as I thought.” Arrogance filled her face. “Why are you wasting your and my time telling me this? Nothing is going to happen.”

  “I’m giving you a chance to come out of this alive,” Murphy said.

  She scoffed. “Seriously?”

  “We have all we need—undeniable proof that you are a traitor who traded American lives to advance your own career.”

  “You’re repeating yourself,” she said. “I don’t know who you work for. NSA? FBI? Doesn’t matter. The fact is that I am protected, and no one can touch me.”

  “You’re wrong,” Murphy said. “That’s why I’m giving you a choice. Resign now. Quietly. You can forget about your benefits, because we will strip you of those—”

  She laughed.

  “Your benefits will be split between the families of the four men you sentenced to death.”

  Her amusement dropped. “You have no idea how the world works.”

  “I know how it works,” he said. “It’s been a big mess for a very long time because good people have allowed themselves to get beaten down into silence by people like you. But here’s some breaking news for you, Ms. Jurvetson. There’s a revolution going on. Politics and personal ambition have destroyed our country, and good Americans have died. It’s going to stop—here and now.” Murphy leaned toward her. “You have twenty-four hours to resign.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Your choice.” Reaching for the door handle, he said in a whisper, “I wouldn’t waste my time packing to move to the DCI’s office quite yet.”

  “You can’t protect Newt Wallace from the CIA,” she said.

  Without a word, Murphy slammed the door on her.

  Fuming, Camille Jurvetson picked up her cell phone and hit a button. “There was a young man who was just in the back of my limo. I want you to get his name, the names of his family members, his home address—everything about him! I don’t care how you get it. Make an example of him.”

  Spencer Inn

  Archie Monday ordered a tomato juice, a glass of water, and two aspirins to go with her breakfast of a vegetable omelet. Across the table in the resort’s restaurant, Dallas Walker had an unbelievable amount of food spread out in front of her. The Texan had a large steak, eggs over easy, home fries slathered in sausage gravy, and Texas toast, of course.

  “Wait until you hit thirty, and your metabolism changes,” Archie said to the woman who was more than ten years younger than she was.

  “Huh?” Dallas stopped with a forkful of steak halfway to her mouth.

  The two women had spent the whole night scouring Sandy Burr’s research and drinking wine. Around three o’clock in the morning, Archie realized that Dallas had drunk her under the table. A wine aficionado who couldn’t remember the last time she had imbibed too much alcohol, Archie was thoroughly annoyed with David’s new girlfriend,

  His computer tablet tucked under his arm, Nathan Braxton followed the host into the restaurant and took a seat several tables away from them.

  “That’s him,” Dallas said. “That’s Nathan Braxton.” Tossing her napkin onto the table, she stood up.

  “We can’t just go running up to him like a couple of football players and tackle him,” Archie said in a hushed voice.

  “Why not?”

  “We need to play it cool.” Taking a deep breath, Archie gracefully rose from the table and strolled across the dining room to where Nathan Braxton was reading the news on his tablet while the server filled his coffee cup. She waited for the server to leave before introducing herself.

  “You’re Mac Faraday’s wife,” he said while shaking her hand.

  “Actually, he’s my husband.” Archie slipped into the seat across from him.

  “If this is about Nancy’s murder, I’ve already—”

  “That’s not the murder I wanted to talk to you—”

  “It’s about Sandy Burr.” Dallas plopped down in the empty seat between them.

  Nathan Braxton’s jaw dropped open slightly.

  “You know all about Sandy Burr,” Dallas said, grinning. “You were the confidential source he came out here to Deep Creek Lake to meet with.”

  Nathan Braxton’s cheeks grew pink.

  “We found your initials in his calendar under the day he was killed and found the phone number of your private line in his list of contacts,” Archie said. “What I don’t understand is why you had to be a confidential source. Braxton Charities was your foundation. You set it up. If something illegal had been going on, you would’ve had the power to stop it.”

  “Not really,” Nathan said while glancing around to make sure that no one was listening to their conversation. “You see, I set up Braxton Charities for Nancy. Her ego refused to allow her to work for anybody. She had this need to be in charge—to snap orders and to have everyone ask ‘how high?’ when she said ‘jump.’ I thought that by setting up Braxton Charities and making it big enough, I could kill two birds with one stone. If I created a foundation that would disburse money to a wide variety of charities, money and help would go to those who needed it. And if I allowed Nancy to be in charge of it, it would help her fulfill her need to be a bigwig and to rub elbows with movers and shakers with big wallets around the world.”

  “But while she was hobnobbing around the world, her brother, Hugh, set up a money-laundering branc
h for the more unsavory movers and shakers,” Dallas said.

  Nathan Braxton nodded his head. “By the time I realized it, it was too late. Nancy didn’t want to hear anything about my suspicions—that’s all they were at that point. Then Sandy Burr came to me because my name was on the foundation. He was investigating how Braxton Charities had awarded some medical grant. I thought—” He shrugged. “I told him all about my suspicions and pointed him in the right direction.” He sighed. “It’s my fault that he’s dead.”

  “Did Hugh Vance kill him?” Dallas asked.

  “He couldn’t have,” Nathan said. “I purposely scheduled Sandy’s and my meeting for when Hugh would be out of town. He had no idea that I was having the foundation investigated. Hugh was in Canada meeting with some foreign companies that wanted to donate to us.”

  “But Hugh did buy the bartender’s silence by buying the hotel and making him a partner,” Dallas said. “He saw Sandy meeting with your wife—”

  “The meeting was my idea,” Nathan said. “Nancy refused to believe any of my suspicions about Hugh. I thought that if a third party, an investigative journalist who had dug deep into the charity, confronted her with solid evidence, she’d see that Hugh was a crook. But it didn’t work.”

  “Why do you say it didn’t work?” Archie asked.

  “She refused to believe it,” Nathan said. “Instead, she accused me of trying to frame her brother and trying to shut down Braxton Charities because I was out to get her. She then turned around and told Hugh.” He waved his hand. “From what I was able to pick up, that bartender found Sandy’s research when he found the body after the killer had taken off. Maybe he left the door of his hotel room open. Instead of calling the police, he kept it and blackmailed Hugh with it.” With a shake of his head, he added, “Nancy could be very paranoid. But no matter how paranoid she got, she never would have thought that her brother was in any way capable of doing anything wrong or illegal—even after all those years.”