by Eva Hudson
“Nope. At my desk, working hard.” Lying again, badly.
“What’s this guy suspected of doing? You still haven’t told me.”
“It’s not important—come on, you said some Latvian woman lived at the address.”
“I ID’d her at the morgue.”
“You did what? Why are you getting involved?”
“A watch list bank account was accessed from her address, is that reason enough? I don’t understand why you’re not interested.”
Marshall let out a long sigh. “This is strictly between you and me, honey, OK?”
That depended on what he was about to tell her. She made a non-committal ‘hmm mmm’ sound.
“Lately I’ve been monitoring a whole heap of watch lists, keeping my eyes and ears open. You never know when you might stumble over something—a quick win. Something to impress the bosses with the minimum amount of effort from yours truly. This was just another example where I got zero results. Happens practically every day. I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”
“I wouldn’t call a woman’s mutilated body a zero result. She went on to describe exactly what she’d seen in the morgue in graphic detail. She pictured Marshall sending his pancake stack and rashers of bacon back to the kitchen.
“But our guy didn’t kill her. That’s just not his style.” It sounded as if he were speaking with his mouth full. “He’s not a butcher. I told you—he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“Don’t you think that the whole thing is way too coincidental? The bank account is accessed by Jane Doe and just forty-eight hours later she’s found dead, all identifying marks removed?”
“She must have just been a scammer who stumbled on one of our monitored accounts. You know as well as I do those people keep pretty bad company. I hate to repeat myself, but whoever was responsible for her death, it wasn’t our guy.” He gulped down some liquid then tried to suppress a belch. “I appreciate your trying to help me, but really, all it’s doing is wasting my time.”
“Oh really?”
“I’m sorry, honey. That came out all wrong.”
“OK—I won’t waste another precious second—just tell me his name and I’ll do a little digging of my own.” Ingrid had marched all the way to the rear of the building and along the main corridor, her pace increasing the madder she got at Marshall. Now she was so pissed at him she wanted to punch something.
“Listen, honey, why don’t you just leave the investigation into the Jane Doe’s murder to the local cops? It’s not FBI business.”
“You can’t know that for sure. Where’s the harm in my pursuing it?” She reached the end of the corridor and started to head back toward the office.
“If you find anything pertinent, you will let me know?”
“Sure—I wouldn’t leave you out of the loop, Marsh. We’re a team, huh?”
He blew out a noisy breath and mumbled something inaudible. “OK—it’s Darryl Wyatt. But don’t complain to me when you find out how totally wrong you are.”
“What did he do?”
“He murdered a woman in a restaurant in Savannah, Georgia.”
“If he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, how did he kill her? What is his M.O.?”
“Our guy’s a poisoner.”
16
Ingrid pulled up sharply. “Poisoner?”
“Yes—that’s what I said—not some knife wielding maniac.”
“What kind of poison did he use?”
“I really don’t have time for this—check out the details for yourself.”
“Please, Marshall, just tell me—”
A fraction of a second later, the disconnected tone bleeped in her ear. He’d hung up on her.
Really?
She was just about to call him back when she thought better of it. Damn Marshall and his ‘quick win’ watch lists. She’d just have to work this case without any help from him.
A poisoner. What if Darryl Wyatt was right here in London? What if the Latvian had gotten too close to discovering his true identity and he’d had to kill her to eradicate the threat. Was it possible he’d had something to do with Matthew Fuller’s death?
She started to run.
Ingrid quickly reached the office and hurried to her desk, aware her speed had aroused the interest of both Jennifer and Isaac.
“Is there something wrong?” Jennifer asked.
“Nope. Everything’s just fine,” Ingrid snapped back at her. She’d been more curt than she’d meant. “Sorry, Jennifer, just really busy right now.”
“Can I help at all?”
“I’ll be sure to holler when you can.”
The clerk shrugged her shoulders a little theatrically and went back to her computer. Ingrid fired up her own desktop PC and waited for long agonizing seconds while the machine went through the slow start-up routine. Then she logged into the main FBI database and tapped Darryl Wyatt’s name into the search box. Three records came up for that name, but only one was a murder suspect last seen in Savannah. Ingrid quickly scanned the information for the name and contact details of the investigating detective. She could read plenty of dry facts on the database, but they would constitute just a fraction of the intel gathered by the team on the ground. Only the barest details would have been keyed into the database—Ingrid hadn’t met a cop or a Fed yet who enjoyed typing.
A few moments later Ingrid was on hold at Savannah-Chatham Police Department, waiting to be put through to a Detective Trooe. When he finally took the call, Ingrid quickly introduced herself and told the detective what she was calling about.
“The peanut poisoner?” Trooe said as soon as she’d finished. His voice was rich and deep and strangely comforting.
“I’m sorry?”
“Darryl Wyatt, right?”
“I know practically nothing about the case. I was hoping you could enlighten me. Do you have the time right now?”
“Sure. Hang on a second.”
Ingrid heard the sound of the receiver clunking down onto a hard surface, then a door close, then the creak of a leather chair. While she was waiting, she scrolled through the records on the database until she found a photograph of Darryl Wyatt.
“That’s better,” Trooe said, “a little quieter.”
“We have a picture of him here,” Ingrid said. “It’s a little indistinct, but Wyatt is white, thirty-three years of age, dark hair, with a beard. Is that right?”
“I can send you through a better photograph than that. Sounds as though you’re looking at his drivers’ license picture.”
“Just now… you called Wyatt—”
“The peanut poisoner. That’s what he did—he killed that poor lady by feeding her peanuts. She had a real bad allergy.”
Ingrid felt a sudden sense of disappointment. It seemed Wyatt wasn’t quite the ‘poisoner’ Marshall had suggested. “He hasn’t poisoned anyone else?”
“Not as far as we know.” The leather chair creaked a little more. “So, you think Wyatt is in London?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How well do you remember the case?”
“Oh it’s crystal clear. It was only twelve months ago.”
With his slow southern drawl, Ingrid wasn’t sure whether Detective Trooe was being sarcastic. “I guess you’ve investigated plenty of other homicides since then?”
“A few, but nothing like this one. This one kinda sticks in the memory.”
“Can you go through the highlights for me?”
“I guess you like using the computer about as much as I do, huh?”
“You can give me the background I won’t find in the official records.”
“I sure can. Where do you want to start?”
“Tell me everything you can about Darryl Wyatt.”
She heard the detective sniff. “That particular request won’t take real long to answer. He was using a false identity. The ID of a dead man. I can’t tell you a whole lot about him. He did have a girlfriend while he was working at the re
staurant, he was dating the restaurant manager. I can give you her contact details when we’re through, if you want.”
“That’d be really helpful.” Ingrid wriggled into her chair, it felt like she might be in for a long session. “He worked at the restaurant where the woman died?”
“He was the maitre d’, had the job there for a couple months before he made his move.” There was a clunk and a buzzing on the line for a few moments. “Tell me your email address, I’ll send you the photograph we have of Wyatt that his girlfriend gave us.”
Ingrid spelled out the address. “So Wyatt was early thirties, white… dark or fair skinned?”
“Depends how much time he spent in the sun I guess. See for yourself when the picture comes through. He was a little under six feet tall, medium build, maybe even a little athletic, if you’re talking tennis player rather than football.” He made a sound as if he were sucking his teeth.
“That’s it?”
“Real charming with the ladies, by all accounts. He had good dental work, they all seemed to remember.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“He did as a matter of fact. Something only the girlfriend reported—a tattoo on his left forearm.”
“Of what?”
“A dark red rose with the word ‘MOM’ written across it.”
Ingrid sketched something similar in her notebook. “Sentimental.”
“Not a word I’d use to describe him.”
“What was his connection to the victim? Why did he want her dead?”
“We just don’t know enough about the guy to work it out. Mind you, Mrs Highsmith musta made plenty of enemies over the years.” He sniffed again. “You really haven’t looked at the details on file at all, have you?”
“I’m sorry. I guess I was a little eager.”
“I’m just joking with you, I’d do exactly the same thing in your position.”
“Thanks for being so accommodating. Why did she have so many enemies?”
“Barbara Highsmith was a congresswoman for Georgia. Not when she died, she didn’t get re-elected a second time, but before she was elected to the House, she was the District Attorney here. Any number of disgruntled convicts or disappointed voters could have been lining up to take potshots at her.”
“Can there be any doubt that Wyatt was responsible for her death?”
“Only three people in the restaurant knew about the allergy: the chef, the restaurant manager and the maitre d’. We interviewed the chef and the manager extensively. We couldn’t interview Wyatt because he skipped town right after she was killed.”
“Maybe he left for some other reason.”
“Highsmith carried around two of those special auto-injectors—just in case she came into contact with peanuts accidentally. She kept both of them in her purse. Her purse never left her side. Except on that day. A number of witnesses confirmed they saw Wyatt remove the purse from under her table. They thought nothing of it at the time. They just assumed he was taking it to the cloakroom. The purse was never found.”
“How soon did he leave? Did he stay to watch her die?”
“The sick bastard sure did. While everyone else was screaming for help, looking for the missing purse, calling 9-1-1, he just stood there and watched while she gasped her last breath.”
“What did you find at his address when you searched it?”
“The address he gave the restaurant was fake. Just like every other piece of information they had about him. We couldn’t track down an address for him hard as we tried. It was as if he didn’t really exist. The whole thing musta taken some careful planning.” The creaking leather noise sounded again, louder than before. “Listen, I’ve got a briefing I got to be at in precisely two minutes.”
“Thanks for your time, detective. Would it be OK if we spoke again later?”
“Sure. And the name’s Carl. I’ll send over the girlfriend’s details.”
Ingrid put down the phone and sank back in her seat, thinking about what she’d just learned. Wyatt was a poisoner who was aware of a weakness in his victim that wasn’t widely known. He used that vulnerability to kill her. Matthew Fuller had kept his OCD and excessive hand washing secret. Very few people knew about his vulnerability.
The similarity between the Highsmith and Fuller cases might be slight, but too significant to ignore. Now more than ever she had to know who had wanted Matthew Fuller dead. And the best place to start was Witness Protection. For any hope of success she’d have to bring in the big guns.
She grabbed her cell from the desk and ran out of the office.
17
Ingrid reached Sol’s office to discover it was empty. There was no sign of his cigarettes on the desk, so she guessed he was out back in the embassy compound getting his nicotine fix. She headed back downstairs.
Sure enough, she found Sol standing on his own, keeping his distance from a nearby group of kitchen and janitorial staff. It wasn’t like Sol to act so aloof, he could talk to anyone about pretty much anything. Then she saw the reason for his enforced isolation. He had a wire trailing from his ear to his cell phone. He obviously didn’t want anyone to overhear his conversation. As Ingrid approached, she noticed he was nodding every few seconds, but not saying anything. She supposed it was another conference call. He seemed to be spending more and more time on trans-Atlantic calls and less and less managing his agents. Ingrid wondered idly why the big cheeses in D.C. were so interested in the Bureau’s International Program and whether it might have any impact on her own work. She sure as hell hoped it wouldn’t.
When he saw her, Sol held up a finger, then hit a button on his cell.
“Bureaucratic bullshit,” he said, and smiled at her. “Hey, I hope you’re getting excited about dinner at chez moi?”
“What?”
“I thought it’d be a chance for Isaac to get to know you a little, outside the office environment. I get the impression he looks up to you.”
Ingrid had been forced to endure Mrs Franklin’s cooking shortly after she’d started working at the embassy. She wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. “I think I’m busy that night.”
“I haven’t even finalized a date yet. Tell me when you’re free and we’ll work around your… commitments.” Sol knew very well that her social engagements were few and far between. She was more likely to be at her desk than anywhere else most nights. He had her. There was no way she could politely back out now.
“This week is completely full. What about next month?”
“It’s a welcome to the embassy dinner for Isaac, don’t you think next month may be a little late?” Before she could answer, Sol held up his finger again. He un-muted the phone, said, “I couldn’t agree more, Jason.” Then hit the mute button again.
“You’re listening to them and me at the same time?”
“Incredible, isn’t it? Multitasking, huh? Meanwhile you still haven’t come up with an excuse to wriggle out of your dinner date.”
“Monday!” she said without thinking.
“Good. I’ll tell Maddy. She’ll make us a feast.”
That was exactly what Ingrid was afraid of.
“What can I do for you?” Sol asked.
“You listened to the message I left you about my new case?”
“The dead trader?”
“I need you to try again with Witness Protection.”
Sol pulled a pained face then shook his head. “I’m sorry—I just can’t. They’re acting completely within their remit. If they responded to every request for information, they wouldn’t be doing a real good job of protecting their witnesses, now would they? The system works—let’s not screw with it.”
“Did you even speak to them yet?”
“I didn’t think it was appropriate.”
“You might have let me know.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“But Fuller is already dead. His dad’s dead. He didn’t have any siblings. There’s no one to protect except his mother.�
��
“Doesn’t she deserve protecting?”
“Oh come on, Sol. You know what I mean.”
“I’d look for a motive for his murder a little closer to home if I were you. Dig a little into Matthew Fuller’s life here. Something that happened to his family when he was a small child isn’t likely to have come back to haunt him so many years later.”
“But he’s been here less than a year. How likely do you think it is he’s crossed someone so badly they’d want him dead?”
“Hey—he’s a City trader. They can’t go anywhere without crossing somebody. And according to your message, the local cops still haven’t ruled out the possibility that the attack was on the bank rather than specific employees.”
“Only officially—that’s just a political exercise to make Fisher Krupps feel as if they’re taking a potential threat seriously. There’s been absolutely no intel on possible extremists targeting the bank. It seems the toxic substance was removed shortly after Fuller’s death. How does that square with doing as much damage as possible to Fisher Krupps?”
“But isn’t that scenario still much more likely than someone from Matthew Fuller’s dim and distant past coming all the way to London to kill him?”
For a moment Ingrid considered mentioning a possible link between Fuller’s death and the murder of the ex-congresswoman in Georgia. But she knew the similarities between the two cases weren’t strong enough to convince Sol of any connection. He’d just tell her to dig up more intel.
A first few drops of rain started to fall, fat and heavy. Sol pulled up his collar and sucked on his cigarette.
“You’ll catch pneumonia,” Ingrid told him, and realized she must have sounded just like his wife.
“Don’t worry about me—I’ve located myself a quiet little closet inside the building that’s warm and dry. No smoke detectors, no nicotine police. This turns into a downpour, I can still carry on smoking.”
“Maybe the rain is a sign you should stop.”
“Oh sure. If I didn’t smoke, I’d never be able to get through these interminable conference calls.”
