Brad rang the doorbell and waited. After a reasonable amount of time, he rang the bell again. When there was still no answer, he started to worry. Senator Carson had given him the phone number for the house in case he had to talk to Koshani for some reason, and Brad had programmed it into his cell phone. He let the number ring ten times before cutting the connection.
What to do? Brad hesitated, then grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door opened an inch. Brad was surprised, and he held the door so that the only view of the interior was through a narrow slit. He dreaded the idea of entering the house uninvited and bumping into Koshani. How embarrassing would that be? But it was getting late.
“Miss Koshani, it’s Brad Miller, your driver,” he shouted.
When there was no response, Brad shouted a little louder before opening the door the whole way and stepping into the vestibule. He was about to call Koshani’s name again when he saw someone sitting in the middle of the living room. The curtains were drawn, and there was very little light, so he had to squint into the shadows that cloaked the room. He still couldn’t make out much.
“Miss Koshani?”
There was no answer and no movement. Brad’s heart beat faster. There was a sickening smell in the air and Brad was certain he knew what was causing it. He wanted to run out of the house, but he held his breath to keep from inhaling and forced himself to inch forward. Jessica Koshani was tied to a high-backed chair. She was naked, she was covered in blood, and there was a gag in her mouth. Hideous things had been done to her.
Brad knew he shouldn’t enter a crime scene, and he started to back out of the house when a thought stopped him. Brad leaned forward and squinted at the dead woman. What he saw made his stomach roll. He definitely wanted to run now, but he needed to know if he was right. Brad forced himself to approach Koshani’s corpse. She had been horribly mutilated. What terrified Brad was the fact that he had seen photographs of other women who had been defiled in a similar manner.
There was one more thing Brad had to see before he could leave. Koshani’s arms were secured behind her back. He circled the body, stepping around and over pools of blood that covered sections of the rug. When he was behind Koshani, Brad forced himself to look at her hands. Clarence Little had hacked off a pinkie from each of his victims to keep as a souvenir. Jessica Koshani’s right hand had only four fingers.
Brad staggered out of the house into the light, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach. He collapsed on the front stoop and took slow, deep breaths. As soon as he regained his composure, he took out his cell phone and punched in the senator’s number. The phone rang several times before a recording told him to leave a message. Brad called the office.
“I need to talk to the senator right away,” Brad told the receptionist. “It’s an emergency.”
“He’s not here, Brad.”
“Did he go to the Intelligence Committee hearing?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“What about Mr. Sharp? Is he in?”
“He’s not here, either.”
Brad thought for a minute. “Okay, if you see them, have them call my cell immediately. Something has come up they need to know about right away.”
Brad hung up and called 911. While he waited for the police, he called Ginny.
“Hi, honey,” Ginny said. “What’s up?”
“We might have a problem,” Brad said. “I’m at the house where Jessica Koshani is staying.”
“Who is Jessica Koshani?”
“The woman I picked up at the airport on Friday for the senator. She was staying at a house Carson owns.”
“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”
“She was murdered, and Clarence Little may have killed her. It’s his MO down to the missing pinkie.”
“Why would Clarence Little kill this Koshani woman?” Ginny asked, incredulously.
Brad felt sick again. “It could be me, Ginny. Clarence might have done it to get at me. If he’s here and he followed me to the airport, he would know where Koshani was staying, and he might have guessed that I’d drive her again or at least learn how she died.”
“Where exactly are you now?”
“Outside the house.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes, right before I called you.”
“That’s good, but I don’t like you being out there all alone. If Little killed Koshani, he could still be around.”
Brad was so distraught that he hadn’t thought of that possibility. His heartbeat sped up and he cast anxious glances around the neighborhood.
“I don’t see anything suspicious, but I’m worried about you. Can you call Dana and ask her to escort you home?”
“You think that’s necessary?”
“Probably not, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re protected. Right now I’m still upset and not thinking straight. We’ll decide what to do tonight after I’ve had time to calm down. The big thing now is that I want to be sure you’re safe.”
Brad stayed at the crime scene, answering questions. Then he was taken to police headquarters, where he gave a statement. He didn’t get into the office until a little after two. As soon as he walked in the door, the receptionist told him that Lucas Sharp had just arrived and wanted to talk to him.
“Does he know about the murder?” Brad asked.
“Two detectives were here to talk to the senator. They left when they found out he wasn’t in, but they told me why they needed to talk to him, and I told Mr. Sharp.”
As Brad walked down the hall to Lucas Sharp’s office, the staff members gave him odd looks, then turned away quickly. Gossip moved swiftly through the halls of Congress.
“How are you doing?” Sharp asked with great concern as soon as Brad walked in.
“I’m much better now, but I was pretty rocky for a while.”
“Sit down. Do you want water or something stronger?”
“Water would be good,” Brad said as he lowered himself onto one of the chairs on the other side of Sharp’s desk. Lucas walked over to a small refrigerator and brought Brad a bottle of water.
“What are the police saying?” Sharp asked.
“Nothing to me,” Brad said after he took a few sips. “It’s probably too soon for them to draw any conclusions, anyway. The forensic people weren’t done when they took me downtown. I told them about Clarence Little, and they’re contacting the authorities in Oregon.”
“What does Little have to do with Koshani’s murder?”
“I only got a quick look at the body . . .” Brad paused and swallowed as his body reacted to the gruesome memory of what he’d seen in Senator Carson’s living room. “She looked like Clarence’s other victims, and the killer took her pinkie.”
“Good God! Why would Little be here in D.C.?”
“I have no idea. Does the senator know about Miss Koshani?”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell him. He’s at his cabin in Oregon. It’s very remote and there’s no cell phone service or Internet.”
“Why is he in Oregon? Koshani was supposed to testify today.”
Sharp hesitated. Then he looked directly at Brad and stared hard enough and long enough to make Brad nervous.
“I’m going to tell you something in confidence,” Sharp said. “You’ve got to promise me this will stay between us.”
“Of course.”
“We received campaign contributions from friends of Koshani’s, large contributions. That’s not a problem, but Koshani could be. You were at the committee meeting when InCo was mentioned. That’s one of Koshani’s companies. If one of her companies helps finance a terrorist attack and Jack’s name is linked to hers . . . Well, I don’t have to spell out what the consequences could be. We thought it would be best if Jack was someplace where the press couldn’t get at him in case someone leaked what went on at the hearing.”
“I can see why you’re worried, but you’ve got to tell the senator.”
�
�I will. I just hope no one digs into the reason Koshani was in Washington. Now why don’t you head home? I don’t want you being hounded by the press, and you can use some downtime after what you just went through.”
Sharp arranged for one of the interns to drive Brad home. Even though it was midday and the sun was shining, Brad looked up and down his street before he got out of the car. The stairwell that led to his apartment was suddenly as dark and foreboding as the stairs in a haunted house. Every sound made him startle, and his imagination turned every shadow into Clarence Little.
Brad didn’t relax until he had locked himself in and toured his apartment, clutching the biggest knife he could find. As soon as he was certain he was alone, he fixed himself a stiff drink and sank down on the couch.
Brad heard a key turn in the lock a little after six. He grabbed the knife and stood up. When he heard Ginny’s and Dana’s voices, he put the knife on the end table. Ginny rushed to Brad and hugged him.
“That had to be horrible. Are you okay?” Ginny asked.
“Now that I know you’re safe, I’m fine.”
Brad turned to Dana. “Thanks for playing bodyguard.”
“Anytime.”
“I’m really worried,” Brad said.
“Yeah, well, you should be,” Dana answered. “I made a call to one of my friends at the D.C. police, a detective in Homicide. He told me some of the preliminary findings. There were signs of a struggle on the landing outside the second-floor guest room. It looks like she tried to fight off her assailant.”
“Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything?” Ginny asked.
“No,” Dana said, “but it’s looking a lot like Clarence Little is involved. Portland sent the autopsy and crime-scene photos in Little’s cases. The MO is very similar. The major difference is that Koshani was tortured and killed where she was staying. In the Oregon cases, Little abducted his victims, then tortured them for days before dumping them far from the place where he held them.”
Something occurred to Brad. “Clarence hasn’t had a victim in years. I can’t believe he wouldn’t take time to . . .”
Brad could not finish his thought. He felt ill just thinking about the suffering Koshani and Little’s other victims had endured.
“You’re right,” Ginny said. “He’d have all that sexual energy pent up inside him. He’d want to enjoy himself. So why the quick kill?”
“The only thing I can think of is that he was sending a message to me, telling me that he’s here,” Brad answered. “I just don’t get why. I know he’s not normal, but I helped him out. And he’s escaped from death row. You’d think he’d want to go underground. Why risk everything to threaten me?”
“Is it possible that Koshani was his target all along and the murder had nothing to do with you?” Ginny asked.
“She does live in Oregon,” Brad said. “Clarence could have met her there.”
“There’s another possible explanation for the quick kill,” Dana said. “The MO is almost identical to the MO in the Little cases, but unlike the Oregon cases, many of the torture wounds were postmortem.”
“They were made after she died?” Ginny asked.
Dana nodded. “The medical examiner is guessing that she died unexpectedly while she was being beaten.”
“That would explain why she wasn’t abducted and why the torture wasn’t drawn out,” Brad said.
“Exactly,” Dana said.
“Ginny told me that you met Koshani at the airport and were picking her up on Senator Carson’s orders this morning.”
Brad nodded.
“What was Koshani’s connection to the senator?”
“She was going to testify before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”
“About what?”
“I don’t think I can tell you that without the senator’s permission. Everything that goes on in their sessions is secret.”
“This could have a bearing on why she was killed and whether you’re involved or just a bystander.”
“I know, but I can’t discuss what I heard in the committee session.”
Dana looked frustrated, but she knew better than to press Brad.
“I guess we’ll just have to proceed on the theory that Little might be a threat to you and Ginny until we know otherwise.”
Chapter Twenty
Ali met the three other members of his cell for the first time a few days before they were smuggled out of Pakistan. It soon became apparent that they were slow-witted. Nothing he had learned about them in the intervening months had changed his opinion. As soon as Steve Reynolds showed them how to work the cable television in the safe house, his companions had no trouble passing the time. Porn occupied a good part of each day, but action movies with a lot of explosions and car chases were a close second.
Ali found pornography offensive and the action movies mindless. He got out of the house on Sundays when the Redskins had a home game. If he went outside, he couldn’t go far for fear of being seen. Ali prayed and read the Koran, but he was going stir crazy. So it was a great relief when Steve Reynolds phoned one Thursday morning and told him they were going for a ride.
Ali heard the horn and was out of the house before it honked a second time. Reynolds was driving a white van decorated with a plumbing company logo. The American said very little during the ride, and Ali knew better than to start a conversation.
At the camp in Somalia, Ali’s intelligence had been recognized and appreciated, and he had been trained to construct bombs. None of the material he needed to build a bomb was in the house. He hoped that this trip was connected to the final phase of his mission.
As they drove, Ali had an unsettling thought. By killing unbelievers, he was serving the one true religion and guaranteeing an eternity in paradise. But carrying out his mission would mean that Ann O’Hearn would die. This was troubling, but it could not be helped. Maybe Ann would be spared. Allah was merciful. Then again, Ann was a heretic. Ali forced himself to stop thinking about Ann because it confused him.
An hour and a half after leaving the house, they were driving through farmland in western Maryland when Reynolds turned off a two-lane rural highway onto a narrow dirt road. Two miles farther on, he drove through a gap in a weathered slat fence and onto a gravel drive that led to a farmhouse. Next to the house was a barn covered in peeling red paint. Two horses and some sheep were grazing in a pasture behind the barn.
“We’re going to meet some people,” Reynolds said when he stopped the van. “They have the detonators and our explosives. I’m going to tell them that you don’t speak English. I’ll do all of the talking.”
Three men walked out of the house as soon as Reynolds parked in the yard. The man in the lead was shorter than the other two, clean shaven and slender with wheat-colored hair and narrow blue eyes that lasered in on the van as he walked toward it. He was wearing jeans and a faded Baltimore Ravens T-shirt.
The other two men resembled Baltimore Ravens. They were huge and bearded and looked like men who enjoyed violence. They made Ali very nervous.
Reynolds hopped down from the van and nodded at the slender man. “Hey, Bob, it was good to hear from you. I was starting to worry.”
“I said I’d get the stuff.”
“Yes, you did. So where is it?”
“First things first,” Bob said. He motioned toward Reynolds and Ali, and one of the behemoths walked toward them. Before he’d gotten halfway across the yard, Reynolds reached behind his back and pulled out a matte black Glock.
“Let’s do this the way we did it the first time we met. You show me yours, then I’ll show you mine.”
Bob’s features darkened, and the two giants tensed.
“You think we’re cops?” Bob asked.
“Except for what I’ve been told by some criminals, I don’t know shit about you, and criminals are notoriously untrustworthy.”
Bob turned to his bodyguards. “Business is business,” he said. “Let them frisk you.”
; Reynolds turned to Ali. “Pat them down to make sure they’re not wired,” he said in Urdu.
“Speak fucking English,” Bob barked.
“He doesn’t speak English. I just told him to pat you down.”
Bob looked at Ali with distaste and spat in the dirt. Then he raised his hands. Ali went over the men very professionally, the way he’d been trained to do it in the camp.
“Satisfied?” Bob asked.
Reynolds nodded. He put away his gun and raised his hands. One of the giants patted them down. Ali thought he was excessively rough.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Reynolds said, “show us what you got.”
Bob nodded, and one of his bodyguards went into the barn.
“You have the money?” Bob asked while they waited.
“Every penny. Where did you get the stuff?”
“A coal mine in West Virginia.”
The bodyguard came out of the barn carrying a cardboard box. His eyes were glued to it, and he walked slowly. Warnings on the sides of the box identified the contents as dynamite. The man set the box down in the dirt and returned to the barn.
Reynolds knelt down beside the box and opened it. Ali looked over his shoulder. Inside were stacks of yellow tubes made out of heavy paper and surrounded by clear plastic to prevent leakage.
The man who had returned to the barn came out carrying a cardboard carton. He set it down next to the dynamite. Reynolds opened that box. Inside were several two-inch-long aluminum tubes with the diameter of a pencil. Reynolds looked up at Bob.
“I want to test one of the blasting caps and one of the dynamite sticks,” he said.
“Be my guest.”
Reynolds’s hand hovered over the detonators. Then it dipped down and plucked out one of the tubes. After examining it, he selected a stick of dynamite. Then he turned to Ali.
“Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he said in Urdu as he handed over the blasting cap and the stick of dynamite.
Ali’s chest puffed with pride. As he went to the van, he vowed to show Steve how much he appreciated the American’s trust.
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