“It’s going to be an interesting one, that’s for sure. None of the vials were disturbed, but the refrigerator had been turned off. The C-bot—sorry, botulism—had begun breaking down. It wasn’t perfectly sealed, and that’s what the terrible smell was. The proteins began to decompose, just like flesh.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Is botulism a hazard?”
She shook her head. “It is a disease, not an airborne pathogen, which is the only reason we’re being isolated here instead of locked down in a containment unit. No, I don’t think there’s any real danger from any of these, so long as they’re treated properly. But it’s quite convenient that he had the wine fridge built into the bar. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it.”
“But maybe the killer did find it. There might be a vial missing. Hell, we’re going in circles. We need to find out what Souleyret was doing with Cattafi in the first place.”
“Yes, we do. I have word in to Baldwin. As soon as he lands in Denver, he’ll call. He told me he didn’t think her current assignment had anything to do with her death, but that was when we thought this was a domestic. Now that we’re dealing with a potential double murder, we have to approach it in a whole new light. Face it, Fletch. You’re stuck with me.”
He grinned at her. “What a perfectly horrible thought.”
Hart came by a few minutes later. Arms bulging, neck now sweating. He had a hand on the Glock at his waist, an impenetrable look spread across his face.
Fletcher put up his hands.
“Don’t shoot, Occifer. I ain’t drunk.”
“You’re demented, that’s what you are,” Hart replied. “And cleared. All the field tests are negative. You’re fine, you’re out of isolation. All the brain rot is from natural causes.” He turned to Sam with a smile. “Good to see you, Doc. This loon roped you into another case?”
“Hey, I’m your commander—you can’t call me a loon.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “Doc, I ever tell you about the time me and Fletch were down in Loudon County on a domestic? Turns out this guy’d been doing it with his goat, and the wife caught him going at it in the barn, lost it, grabbed the closest weapon and pumped him full of bird shot. Dude dies with his, ahem, boots on, so to speak. Now, Fletch here, he’s trying to figure out how we save this poor goat, so he—”
Sam was already giggling, and Fletcher reached out like he was going to smack Hart’s arm, but thought better of touching him. “Don’t you dare say another word, or I’ll bump you back to uniform. Tell me what’s happening at the hospital. How’s Cattafi?”
Hart flashed him a grin, then got serious. “Dude lost a lot of blood. He’s not giving too many signs of waking up anytime soon. His family’s on a flight in from Michigan. They’ll be in—” he checked his watch “—by one or two. There are big storms in Chicago and their plane was delayed. Your dead chick has a sister. We’re trying to locate her to do notification now. There’s not a lot of info floating around about either one of them, and the vic lived overseas. We’re trying to track it all down. I figure you’re gonna want to talk to the families when we round them up, at the very least.”
“Kind of you to save them for me.”
“Yeah, yeah. The sacrifices I make.”
“Cattafi’s parents wrecked?”
“They’re as distraught as you can imagine. Claim the kid’s some sort of supergenius. Gonna cure cancer, all that.”
“I keep hearing that. Anything on the traffic cams? I noticed one on the corner.”
“We’re looking at everything between ten and two. And we’re going to recanvass the area. There’s a camera mounted a few doors down, but the folks weren’t home when we knocked.”
“Good. Anything we can get will help. Sam, you know his professors at Georgetown, right? Can you get us in to talk to them?”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll go set something up right now.” She walked a little ways down the leafy green street, punching numbers in her cell phone.
Hart gave him the fish eye. “What are you doing, dragging her in here? She’s a civilian, Fletcher, albeit a talented one. You can’t keep involving her in our cases. It’s not seemly.”
“Now, now, don’t get your panties in a wad. She’s a legitimate part of the investigation. Apparently, our female vic was undercover FBI. Sam’s taking John Baldwin’s place for the time being while he deals with another case.”
“Whose idea was that?”
Fletcher smiled. “Lonnie, worry not, okay? I wouldn’t do anything to compromise this investigation. She’s got a knack for this—took her all of ten minutes to dig out the hidden refrigerator. Speaking of which, I trust you’ve told Robertson I’m gunning for him?” Mel Robertson was the head of the crime scene unit—it was his boys and girls who’d screwed the pooch.
“Robertson is quaking in his size-fourteen boots.” A few spatters of rain started, and Hart popped a baseball cap onto his bald pate.
Fletcher put the file he was holding over his own head as a shield. “I’m not kidding. If Robertson ain’t gonna take this seriously, I’ll let Armstrong go after him. What sort of bullshit is this, that we can’t trust our own crime scene techs to do their jobs?”
“You sound like a bureaucrat.” But Hart was smiling. He liked the idea of Robertson getting chewed out.
“I am a bureaucrat. Now.”
Sam was walking back toward them, a worried look on her face. When she reached them, Fletcher shared his file folder with her.
“What’s the matter?”
She bit her lip. “Thomas Cattafi isn’t a student at Georgetown anymore. He was kicked out two weeks ago. The dean says he can’t discuss it over the phone. We’ll have to go see him to find out more.”
Chapter 15
Teterboro Airport
New Jersey
XANDER WAS ONCE again standing with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot to alleviate the boredom. As predicted, when the New Jersey cops had rolled in, he’d been recuffed and brought to another interrogation room inside the Teterboro Airport, then left to cool his heels while the powers that be decided what to do with him. The room was a dingy white, a twin to the one he’d been in with Chalk and Denon, nothing more than a table, four chairs and a camera bolted high in the northeast corner. No windows, nothing to allow him to entertain himself.
Left to his own devices, he’d begun brooding about the shooting again. He’d done the right thing, he knew it, but the image of the shooter crumpling over the parapet replayed in his mind. He hadn’t killed anyone since he’d separated from the Army, taken his honorable discharge and walked away into the woods. For the first several weeks, he’d even done catch and release on the damn trout he landed, simply because he couldn’t stand the thought of harming anything else.
That ended. Of course it did. His sense returned. But he’d not taken a human life since that last firefight in Jalālābād, and he’d hoped he never would have to again.
If he was going to have a career in close protection, clearly he was going to have to realign his priorities.
The door opened, and a plainclothes officer he hadn’t seen before walked in. He uncuffed Xander, handed him a bottle of water, shook his hand.
“Arlen Grant. New Jersey State Police. Seems you’ve had yourself an interesting day.” Grant was tall and lanky, a solid jaw, just this side of forty, hair about to thin but not there yet, with a sleek gray suit and a chunky stainless-steel watch, a Fitbit trainer on the opposite wrist. He had the hungry look of a man who’d lost weight recently, and would do most anything to sink his teeth into a thick steak and fries instead of salad and veggies.
“You could say that.”
“Why don’t you tell me the story, top to bottom, then we’ll talk about your next steps.”
Xander a
ssessed Grant openly. He seemed friendly enough. Almost too friendly. All of Xander’s warning bells went off.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I want to hear the story in your own words, man-to-man. That’s all.”
Xander wasn’t stupid. He saw where this was headed, heard something in Grant’s voice that made him go on alert. He didn’t trust the man.
He hated to do it, because in his capacity as a security agent he’d done his job—protected his principal—but he had to protect himself, too. The facts were indisputable. He’d killed a man, on American soil, in front of a dozen witnesses, with only James Denon and Chalk’s word for it that it wasn’t a well-planned hit. There was no choice, not anymore, not the way Grant was looking at him, like a bird who’s spied a juicy worm across a dew-wet lawn.
“I’ll need a lawyer present, and then I’m happy to tell you the whole story.”
Grant’s expression didn’t change, though he waited for a heartbeat, staring straight into Xander’s eyes. He didn’t say another word, just stood and walked out of the room.
Fuck.
Grant had been expecting the demand. They knew if Xander had half a brain he would lawyer up. Grant had come in as a test.
Ante up.
Xander thought furiously—who was he going to call? He hadn’t exactly kept in close touch with many people since he’d left the Army, just a few Ranger buddies, and they weren’t lawyers. Were they going to keep him here, or take him somewhere else? He’d need to let Sam know.
At the thought of her, he felt his resolve start to crumble. Way to go, man. You’re about to get yourself arrested for murder. Now there’s a phone call to sow marital bliss.
She’d leap into action, he was sure of it. She’d know a good lawyer; she knew everyone, it seemed. And better calling Sam than calling his parents out in Colorado. This wasn’t cow tipping, which was the charge the last time he’d been arrested. Their kindly town sheriff had cuffed him, marched him up the mountain to his parents’ farm and let them mete out the justice, so it wouldn’t go on his record.
Good old Sheriff Houghton. Dead now, but well remembered in Xander’s hometown of Dillon as a great, fair, equitable lawman. Thanks to him, Xander shoveled goat shit for a month.
The door opened, and Grant came back in, a curious look on his face.
“I’m getting my phone call, right?” Xander said.
“Don’t worry about it. There’s a dude on his way here right now, criminal defense hotshot out of New York. Sean Lawhon. Heard of him?”
Xander shook his head.
“Best shark that money can buy. You have a fan in Mr. Denon. He engaged the lawyer’s services on your behalf before you and I ever talked. So. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other until he arrives. Between you and me, I want to stay away from the cameras.”
Great, the media was here. Xander nodded once, curtly. He still needed to call Sam, more so now, before she saw it on TV.
“Am I allowed to make a call?”
“Are you going to talk about the case?”
“Just want to give someone a heads-up. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”
“Why don’t we wait for Mr. Lawhon, then you can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want to trample your rights or anything.” He pulled out his cell phone and began playing a rousing game of solitaire. Judging from the slowness of the clicks, he was losing.
Xander gritted his teeth at Grant’s sarcasm. He’d dealt with men like him plenty of times—either he’d chill when he saw Xander had only been doing his job, and get all sorts of friendly, or he’d go for the jugular. There weren’t going to be any in-betweens. And they would never be friends; a connection would not be made.
Which was fine. He didn’t need more friends.
Xander drank his water, and when he set the empty bottle down, there was a knock at the door. Grant gave his screen one last, doleful glance, then opened the door.
The lawyer was a kid. Xander was only thirty-six, but Lawhon looked at least a decade younger—tan and blond and thick through the shoulders. He looked like he’d be good for a pickup game at the gym. He did not look like a threat.
Which was probably why he was successful. Subterfuge and camouflage.
“Mr. Whitfield? I’m Sean Lawhon. Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. His parents hadn’t sprung for braces; Lawhon was a self-made man. “We’ll get this all straightened out in a jiff. No reason to think we won’t be out of here quickly. Is there, Detective Grant?”
Grant watched the show, a pointed look on his otherwise homely face. “He killed a man, Mr. Lawhon. Let’s not lose sight of the facts.”
Lawhon flipped like a switch, the friendliness gone. He looked at Grant like he was an alien. His voice was no longer pleasant, it was grim and angry. “We’re not dealing with a security guard shooting an intruder in a building. This is a trained, and licensed, I might add, professional who stopped an assassination attempt. To even hold him is unconscionable. You should be ashamed of yourself, Detective Grant. This man was doing his duty to his client.”
Grant yawned, showing a gold molar.
“Take it up with the judge, Lawhon. Grand jury is already seated for another case. I’m sure we could push this onto the docket by morning.”
Xander watched the exchange with interest. Grant’s attitude was pissing the kid off. The anger was genuine now, not fabricated for Xander’s benefit.
“Give me a break. There’s not going to be a grand jury. They’d laugh you out of the room, much less even consider indicting. We all know you’re just being difficult because you can.”
Grant’s face tightened at that remark. Lawhon continued his assault. “Why are you still here? Planning to listen in while I talk to my client?”
“Naw,” Grant said. “Just wondering what it is about you city boys and your fancy suits. Enjoy.” He shut the door behind him, and Lawhon took a quick breath, straightened his lapels, turned to Xander and smiled.
“That guy is a raging dickhead. We’ve never gotten along.” The pal tone was back.
“I see that. What did he do?”
“Divorced my sister last year, without a lot of warning. Crushed her. Though he’s always been an ass, that’s nothing new. We’re all just one big happy family.” Lawhon set up on the table, briefcase open, phone out, yellow notepad, Montblanc fountain pen. He saw Xander eyeing the pen. “Gift from my parents when I graduated law school. It was my grandfather’s.”
“Was he a lawyer, too?”
“A writer actually. Parents wanted me to go the same route—the pen is mightier than the sword, all that. Lost their minds when I decided to go to law school. They’re just a couple of hippies, have a commune up in Albany. They didn’t want me working for The Man.”
Xander felt his spirits lift. “As are mine. In Colorado. My folks were rabid when I told them I was going to enlist.”
“I know. I read your file on the way over. You’ve got a fascinating background.” A glint in the blue eyes. “May I call you Moonbeam?”
“If you want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, sure thing.”
Lawhon smiled again, lips closed this time. “Alexander, then.”
“Xander’s fine. What’s their plan? Are they going to charge me?”
Lawhon became all business. “They’re considering it. You stalling Grant made them nervous. There’s a bevy of cops out there. Half of them want to shake your hand, half want to see you strung up.”
“Grant made me uncomfortable. I had a sergeant way back who used to buddy up to us grunts, then use what we told him to make our lives hell. I got the sense Grant would do the same.”
“You’re a shrewd judge of character. Despite my own personal drama, Grant d
oes have a reputation. He isn’t one to be messed with. He’s a true believer. There’s no gray in his world. You’d already be in a cell if you’d talked to him. Now, tell me about the shooting. Whatever possessed you to pull the trigger?”
“Dude was about to take out my principal. I didn’t have a choice.”
Saying it aloud made him feel better. He’d done right. He’d done his job.
“The principal being James Denon, head of Denon Industries, one of the world leaders in oil and gas, mining and the like.”
“Correct. He had business in the city, hired our firm to do his protection. He wanted to be subtle—he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been to the States.”
“So he chose a small, untried firm out of Washington, D.C.?”
“Small, yes. Untried? Hardly. We’ve got more experience in these matters than most.”
“New, then. A new firm.”
“All right. Yes. New.”
“Any idea why he chose you?”
“We were recommended to Mr. Denon by a friend.”
Lawhon tipped his head. “What friend?”
“My partner booked the job. You’ll have to ask him for a name.”
“I’ll do that. The man you shot hasn’t been identified. He had a sniper rifle and enough ammunition to kill every person on that tarmac. Why were you so sure he was going after Denon?”
Xander shifted in his seat. It was a good question, and he needed to be sure of his answer. “Logic. It was a setup. Had to be. Whoever took out the contract on Denon knew we were his people on the ground, and knew our procedures. Once Denon was on the plane and in the air, he ceased to be our responsibility. We were leaving when we got the call the plane was coming back. It was a well-orchestrated plan to get us out of the way.”
Lawhon sat back in the chair. “Pretty elaborate.”
“Yes. Whoever wants him dead hired someone who knows close-protection protocols.” And was using a United States Army–issue enhanced sniper rifle, one Xander himself had used many a time. He didn’t mention that tidbit.
“How did you know for sure the guy was after Denon?”
What Lies Behind Page 8
