by Dan Alatorre
Pivoting to the horse, DeShear fired again. The first shot missed the racing rider.
She aimed her gun at him. Flash after flash came from the muzzle. She was thirty feet away, then twenty. Her shots soared past him.
As the galloping horse drew near, DeShear ran forward into its path and dived into the grass. The horse leaped over him, unbalancing its rider. DeShear rolled onto his back and pointed his gun at her, firing.
She slumped forward and slid from the saddle. Tipping sideways, her body went limp and hit the ground, one foot still caught in the stirrup. The horse kicked and bucked, turning in a circle as it dragged her.
A pedestrian raced forward and grabbed the reins, calming the horse. DeShear sprinted back to the coffee kiosk. Lanaya stood there, her knees shaking and her mouth hanging open.
He put his arms on her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. “You did good.”
She nodded. Her mouth moved but no words came out.
Taking her by the hand, he moved toward the shadows of the trees. “You can thank me later. It’s time to go.”
Chapter 10
Mark Harriman resisted the strong urge to shove the mountain of paperwork off the desk and into the trash can next to it. His eyes were red and sore from staring at a computer screen, and his back ached from slouching over its keyboard.
As the assistant duty officer approached, he leaned back in the chair and groaned. “Jayda, no.”
She shrugged, placing another set of reports on top of the pile. “Sorry, friend. You told the lieutenant you’d do them all. This is ‘them all’.”
He shook his head and reached for the new stack of reports. “Next time, tell me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Next time, ask me first.” Jayda strolled back to the elevator.
He groaned, flipping through the papers. “This would go a lot faster if these guys learned to spell.”
The phone console beeped. “Mark, are you still at Detective Sanderson’s desk?”
“Yep,” he replied to the speaker phone. “Whatcha got?”
“The fire inspector is on line eleven.”
“Thank you.” He waited for the speaker to cut off and lifted the phone from its cradle, pressing the flashing button. “Officer Harriman speaking.”
“Hey, Mark. It’s Dyson Spinks. We’re filing our PFR and you said you wanted what we had so far on the DeShear fire.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dyson. I appreciate it. How’s it look?”
“It’s definitely arson. We found accelerant everywhere. Gasoline, looks like, but we’ll know for sure tomorrow. And the swimming pool camera caught some images of a suspicious character lurking around the building right before it went up.”
Harriman rocked back in the chair. “Wow, that’s good work. Your gang is rocking it. I’ll let Hank know to keep his eyes open.”
“Well, that’s the thing. A neighbor of his was home sick with the flu all week. Said she saw our person of interest go into the apartment, alone, right before the place went up in flames.”
“The flu?” Harriman frowned. “What, was she spying on him from the toilet?”
“There’s different kinds of influenza. There’s the diarrhea kind and the upper respiratory kind. She had the cough. It’s going around. I had it a while back, and—”
“Anyway . . .”
“Uh, anyway, she knew DeShear from saying hi at the mailbox and the pool, so she noticed when it wasn’t him going into the place that day. She didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that normally no one would be going up there alone without DeShear. After the place went up in smoke, she thought it was suspicious. She gave a statement to our investigator, but it’s not much more than that.”
“Can you send me the images from the pool camera?”
“Yep. And Mark, there’s one more thing. The boss doesn’t like it—DeShear’s place burning and him suddenly out of town and not returning calls.”
Shaking his head, Harriman leaned forward in the chair. “Hank’s no arsonist.”
“Hey, stranger things have happened. The manager said he’d been slow with the rent a few times lately. He hasn’t paid for December yet, and it’s a week until Christmas. His credit report said his insurance on the place lapsed, so we called the insurance company to verify. Guess what? The premium got paid the morning of the fire.”
Harriman winced. “Okay, the guy was having a bad stretch. Every time he makes a buck, that butt wad Tullenstein hauls him back into court and takes it. That doesn’t mean he torched his apartment.”
“All I’m saying is, lots of people get in a tough spot and want a clean slate. They figure an insurance check will buy them a new life. It’d be nice if DeShear would talk to us. A guy going away the same day his home burns to the ground, and then not returning calls—that doesn’t look good.”
Harriman sighed. “Yeah, okay.”
“He’s your friend. Give him a call.”
“I’m on it.” Grabbing a pen from the desk, Harriman scribbled a note on the pad. “Can you send me the video from the pool camera?”
“Sure. The hedges hide most of it, but we separated a few still images that look pretty clean. We’ll use those in the morning to get the neighbor to verify it’s who she saw. I’ll email them.”
“Thanks, buddy.” He tossed the pen onto the desk and rubbed his eyes.
“And Mark . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Have DeShear call us. Like yesterday. The longer this stays unresolved, the worse it looks.”
* * * * *
The nearly-empty vending machines at the MARTA station provided their last bag of stale Fritos and some questionable-looking cupcakes to DeShear and his companion. He handed her the bag of chips and viewed the lobby. “At least it’s warm in here.”
Lanaya opened the Fritos and sniffed, scrunching up her nose.
DeShear took a bite of a cupcake, stopping midway through. “These are no better.” He tossed the package into a trash can.
With a huff, Lanaya sat down on a bench, shoving her hands into the suitcoat pockets.
DeShear paced back and forth across the unswept lobby. “If they’d shoot at us there, in a public place—with a cop present—they’re . . . well, they . . . I don’t know.” He put a foot on the bench and leaned forward, folding his arms over his knee. “What I wonder is, are these guys two steps ahead of us or are they tracking us somehow?”
Lanaya withdrew her hand from the suitcoat pocket. She held up a cell phone.
“Oh, crap,” DeShear said. “I thought I left that in the hotel room.” He took it and mashed the home button. “I put it on airplane mode for the flight, and didn’t remember to take it off.”
“They may have been able to track us using that.” Lanaya hunched her shoulders. “It won’t receive signals in airplane mode, but it’ll still ping cell phone towers and give your location.”
“Great. Sorry, I didn’t know. So I can’t use my phone, and we left all your stuff back at the hotel, your computer and—”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. My computer is encrypted and set up to not keep histories. The phone was a new disposable. They won’t get anything.”
“Good. What about the keys to your many secret airport lockers and the fake IDs? Those might be in the hands of our gun-happy friends now.”
“I doubt it. I tossed my purse and the keys in the hotel room safe when we got there. Until they get a hold of a daytime manager, they won’t be able to get into that safe—and even then they’re probably going to need the person registered to the room to do it.” She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. “Unless they’re law enforcement.”
“Nah. Not these guys.” He stood up and paced again. “The way they were shooting, they had zero clue how to handle a gun. There’s no—hey, that’s something.” He stopped and rubbed his chin. “Yeah, they’re amateurs. Even rookie cops wouldn’t fire into a crowd like that—there’s no chance of hitting your target. These clowns shot
like they were in an arcade. That means they aren’t law enforcement or former military. They’re, like . . . well, like you. They’ve seen guns on TV, but they don’t know how to use them.”
“And that’s a benefit how?” Lanaya threw her hands up. “You said we’d be safe in the open, then the OK Corral happened!”
“It means they won’t use coordinated attacks or ambush planning. We can outsmart them. Plus, after that crazy melee in the park, there’ll be Atlanta police all over the place.” He frowned. “Which means the cops will be after us, since we were shooting, too.”
“It was self-defense,” Lanaya said. “They shot at us first.”
“Yeah, and that will all get sorted out eventually.” DeShear rubbed his chin again. “But not before we’re sitting in a holding cell—and then if they have any law enforcement help, we’ll be sitting ducks.” He looked at one of the substation security cameras. “We need to get on the move. Now.” He headed for the exit.
“Yes,” Lanaya said, jumping up. “To Minnesota.”
Stopping at the exit, he turned and waited. “Minnesota will require an airport. Airports have cops. Besides, we’re linked now. Booking me an airline ticket is almost the same as booking you one, so they’d be able to track us. You don’t have an ID anyway now—do you?”
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a driver’s license. “Lanaya can still fly. And I have some money stashed in a locker at the American Airlines terminal. One with a keypad. There’s enough for two tickets to Minnesota.”
“You are something else.” DeShear grinned, pushing open the door. “Well, anywhere but here is a good idea right now. But no trains and no buses until we’re at the airport—and then we get the first flight to anywhere. We can’t afford to get picked up in the airport while we’re sitting around waiting for a flight.”
She pointed to his cell phone as she breezed past him to step into the cold night air. “Call a cab. They don’t have security cameras, and we can hire one to take us a hundred miles if we need to.”
* * * * *
During the wait for the cab, DeShear checked his voicemail messages. One was from Mark Harriman. The toxicology report had come back positive for Propofol in Dr. Braunheiser.
There were standard, post-accident messages from his insurance company; he skipped over those to see what else was pressing. The fire inspector had called several times. Not surprising after an arson, but since DeShear was on the run, the folks at TFD could work things out for themselves for a while.
The last message was another from Harriman. The fire investigators had pictures of a person of interest, seen outside DeShear’s place right before the fire. Harriman would email it. And without directly saying so, apparently TFD as much as implied DeShear may have been working with the person to burn the place down.
Fair enough. I’d have thought the same thing.
He opened his email and waited as dozens of messages tried to load, but didn’t. The signal wasn’t strong enough outside the substation. He tucked his free hand under his other arm and shuddered against the cold.
A cab approached from the other side of the street, slowing to make a U-turn. DeShear walked to the curb and waved.
The driver didn’t speak much English, but that was an advantage for the moment.
DeShear’s phone might divulge that he’d called for a ride—if anyone was tracking him online—and maybe even where they were headed, but he figured powering down his phone would stop them from keeping on his trail through the use of cell towers. Then online trackers wouldn’t know if he’d changed destinations or taken a detour after boarding the vehicle.
He opened the rear passenger door for Lanaya.
The wind whipped her hair into her face. “Are you sitting in front?”
“No, I thought we might both sit in back. So we can strategize.”
“Oh. Very good.” She climbed in. DeShear followed. The burst of air from the car’s heater was a welcome relief. He rubbed his hands together and leaned back into the soft, warm seat cushions.
The driver had been instructed to take them to the airport, but Lanaya’s earlier comment had some merit. Driving a hundred miles would deliver them halfway to the Florida-Georgia border, far away from the current troubles in Centennial Park and the Greater Atlanta police.
The cab driver could call in a change of plans and take us to a rest stop, and we could hire a second cab to take us into Florida. From there . . . well, who knows, but at least we wouldn’t be on anybody’s radar screen, and that might keep people looking for us in Atlanta while we got to, say, Jacksonville—and took a plane to Minnesota . . .
Except he didn’t have a fake ID. If he used his real one, they’d be tracking him again.
Crap.
He sat back, sighing, and closed his eyes. The heat in the cab was nice on his feet and hands.
Opening one eye, he glanced at Lanaya-Dara. “What’s in Minnesota?”
“Don’t you mean who? I told you, there were two people from Onyx who now worked together in Minnesota.”
“You and your husband?”
The headlights from an approaching vehicle illuminated her face. She was tired, but held her chin high. The car passed, sending the cab back into darkness. The only light was the green glow of the dashboard gages.
DeShear’s voice was soft. “It’s the only place I’ve really seen you get excited about, so it had to be.”
“Very good, Hamilton. My daughter and two sons are there, too. At a safe location. Not our house.”
“Good.”
It was a big admission, saying the kids were there. It showed trust, but it showed there was more at stake than just her own well-being.
DeShear rolled his shoulders and stretched his back, easing into the seat cushion. “I gotta admit, I feel a little silly about calling you the wrong name this whole time.”
She shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped. My sister Tinara went by different names. To our mother, she was ‘Yeon-in’—Sweetie, in American English—but always Tinara to my father. My brothers and sisters and I called her Tia, as did her grade school classmates. High school friends called her Tina, and in college, she was Tinara again. When someone walked up and said hi to her, the name they used told us where they knew her from. That’s where I got the idea of using different names on each missing persons case.”
“How many people are you involved with?”
“No, I’m the missing person in each case. Dara Han might be looking for Lanaya Kim. In a different city, Akina Cho has hired a law firm to look into the wrongful death of Kiri Jiang.”
“Sounds like a CIA operation.” DeShear chuckled. “Let me guess. Lanaya flies to Tampa, but Akina checks into the hotel room and pays cash. Then Kiri flies to Atlanta. I like it. The killers can’t figure out where you are very quickly.”
“And different people would know me under different names, so . . .”
“So you’d know who to trust.” DeShear nodded. “I get it. Okay, then. You can still be Lanaya.”
She smiled. “How very generous of you.”
“You know,” he turned to her. “I was thinking. We can change cabs and get to a different airport, then head back to Tampa. Apparently I have some things to clear up there, but I might be able to call in a favor, too. If you think your family is safe—”
“They’re as safe as I could get them, but who knows for how long? My husband and I are on a short list that keeps getting shorter. If time is tight for the killer, two targets in one place would be very appealing. That’s where you come in. As a private detective and former police officer, you know how to set up stakeouts. We could even set up a ruse with the police—a break in or domestic dispute of some sort, possibly a stalker—anything that would get them involved and watching, so as soon as he showed, we’d have him. He might even know if any of the big rumors about Angelus are true, too.”
“It’s a good plan, but it could take a while,” DeShear said. “What if we crank it up a few leve
ls?”
“What do you mean?”
“Our guy originally kept the murders quiet because publicity would cause people to eventually link the murders and take the fight to him. He couldn’t have that because he wanted to keep eliminating the people on the list. But after what happened in the park, that’s probably done. And if he only has a short while to live, that strategy doesn’t work anymore, anyway. But if he knew there was a gathering of all the high-level muckety mucks from the company that gave him an early death sentence, I would think that would prove too tempting to resist.”
“But I told you, they live all over the place. What would cause such a thing to happen?”
He leaned forward, tapping the seat with a finger. “You indicated that most of the top executives were motivated by money.”
“Most, but not all.”
“And Angelus Genetics is an American company?”
“Yes, but the work now takes place in subsidiaries located all over the world.”
Folding his arms, he sat back. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing will get an American company’s entire executive staff on a plane faster than the stock price falling, and nothing will make a stock fall faster than classifying its major investments and subsidiaries. You raise a stink with the IRS and cry for an audit, and the big wigs will come running to defend their numbers and keep everything quiet. They’ll all be in the same place at the same time, guaranteed.”
“Classifying?”
“It’s an accounting term. It means declaring the investments as crap. I learned it from my ex-wife, Camilla. She worked her way up at one of the big accounting firms. Now she’s a bureau chief with the IRS.” DeShear grinned. “Trust me, between your inside information and what happened in Centennial Park, the IRS will be conducting a severe rectal probe on Angelus Genetics in twenty-four hours. And as a bureau chief, Cammy can get us on the audit team.”
“Sounds intriguing.” She smiled. “I think Lanaya should rent a car at the airport so we can drive to Tampa tonight.”
Chapter 11
