by Dan Alatorre
Chapter 16
Camilla got up from her living room sofa. “I don’t know, Dash. It’s pretty thin.” Glancing at her watch, she walked to the hallway and plucked a set of keys from a large, baroque armoire. “Look, why don’t you visit the fire marshal and get that situation cleared up, then we’ll sit down again in a few days and see where everything is.”
DeShear shook his head, rising. “Can’t. That won’t work. People shot at us in Atlanta. Her family’s in hiding, for Pete’s sake. The others on the list are in danger. Why won’t you act on this?”
“It’s not IRS jurisdiction. It’s mostly overseas, and what isn’t in Indonesia is a matter for the FBI and the police. I’ll act on it. I’ll refer it to the right agencies, and they’ll move on it. But it’s not really an IRS thing.”
“But IRS is the key. Cammy, these guys did a lot of illegal stuff, but they did it to make money. It’s not feasible to think none of that cash came back here. And when it did, they sure didn’t declare it to the IRS and pay taxes on it. Even Al Capone didn’t do that. All we have to do is show one dollar from that activity making its way back to the States, and we have the thread that unravels the sweater. Now, Lanaya has solid evidence of what activities occurred at the Arizona facility—”
“Ten years ago,” Camilla said. “Or longer.”
DeShear paced back and forth. “They’re still doing it, and they’re washing the money. So it’s tax evasion or it’s money laundering, or both, but that’s IRS all the way. If you declare an emergency audit on a publicly traded company, they have to comply. Demand to see all assets, leak it to the press, and they’ll have no choice. They’ll have to take you to Indonesia to inspect—or watch their stock price plummet.”
She folded her arms. “It’s not that easy. It requires coordination with a lot of federal agencies.”
“Which is what that Fast Fly team used to do, right? Storm into financial institutions without any warning and seize everything in a surprise raid? I seem to remember you going on a lot of those back when we were newlyweds. And when you leak the news about the audit, the killers will come out to take down the board members they haven’t already gotten. You stuff a plane full of FBI agents and federal marshals dressed like auditors, and take them down to arm the Indonesian facility like it’s Fort Knox. If the killers set one foot in the airport and buy a ticket to Indonesia, we have them on conspiracy. Lanaya doesn’t think there are more than a dozen of them, so a platoon of federal marshals will have no trouble bagging the thugs the second they make their move. IRS will look like a hero and FBI will get a bunch of arrests. Everybody wins.”
“Yeah, we could utilize the RICO statutes to get the ball rolling.” Camilla twirled her keys, her gaze focused on a distant wall, but not really looking at it. “Between the potential IRS violations, the racketeering, and the conspiracy to commit murder, it makes a compelling case. The political arm will like it, and Fast Fly is good at making headlines.”
DeShear leaned forward. “And who puts Fast Fly in motion?”
“IRS.”
“Yeah, but who, specifically?”
“Bureau chiefs. I can ring the alarm and engage a Fast Fly team.”
“Yes, you can.” He grinned. “Cammy, please. I’m not going to embarrass you. I didn’t burn my apartment down, and I’m not wrong about this. Do it, and put us on the audit team. Get me on site. I’ll find out what they’re up to.”
She checked her watch again. “I’m not doing anything until I get some more details.”
DeShear stepped back, chewing his lip.
She sighed. “Ride with me to my office and we’ll talk on the way. I need to clear my schedule.”
* * * * *
“Good morning.” Camilla’s assistant stood and handed her a stack of messages.
Camilla took a glimpse at the papers as she crossed the outer office area. She turned to Lanaya. “Ms. Kim, would you wait out here for a moment please? Tonia, would you get Ms. Kim some coffee?”
“Of course, Camilla.” The assistant stood and walked down the hallway.
“Dash, would you join me in my office?”
DeShear nodded. “Sure.”
The door shut behind him as his ex-wife went to her desk and sat. She placed her car keys on a folder on her desk, leafed through the messages, then picked up a pen and pointed it at him. “What kind of trouble are you really in?”
“None, really,” DeShear said, shifting his weight on his feet. “Not the police kind, anyway. My client has shooters after her, and they burned down my place and shot at us in Atlanta. I fired back.”
“Using what?”
“A gun I took off a guy who attacked us in the hotel. Then we—well, I—assaulted a cop and stole a car . . .”
She winced. “Who did you hit?”
“I didn’t hit him. I grabbed the deputy’s arm to take his radio, but that’s technically assault. On the video it will look bad, and he’ll say I assaulted him. Then . . . I disabled his patrol car and put it in a swamp. Oh, and the guns are probably stolen. I don’t think the guys we took them from were really the above-board type.”
Camilla closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Anything else?”
“That’s about it.”
“Well, it’s good you aren’t in any trouble.” She tossed the pen to the desk. “What about the fire at your apartment?”
DeShear raised his hands. “I had nothing to do with that. I went to the gym and then had breakfast at Ihop, then I was with my client. That’s all verifiable.”
She leaned back and put her elbow on the arm of the chair, resting her chin in her hand. “Okay.”
“So what I need is for you to arrest me.”
“What?”
“Us. Arrest us.” DeShear took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Camilla’s desk. “Call a federal marshal from downstairs and arrest us, to be remanded into your custody. Then we’ll be able to take care of business with you. The local jurisdictions don’t supersede federal authority, so the Tampa fire marshal and the Tampa police, the Georgia deputy—none of them will be able to interfere with Lanaya and me unless you give the green light. Which you won’t because I’m bringing this giant, promotion-getting case to you.”
“Yeah, it’s all for me. Thanks for making it so easy, too. The fire marshal and Tampa PD won’t mind at all. Here’s an idea. I think I’ll get them over here and let them express their happiness to you in person before I take you out of their reach.”
“That’s a different way to go, but okay. They’ve all been leaving messages, anyway. But I was a little busy not getting killed to return their calls.”
She sighed. “What about clothes?” Camilla pointed to his sweatshirt. “You can’t help run a task force meeting looking like that. I’d say you look like you slept in that gear, except you don’t look like you’ve slept.”
DeShear rubbed the beard stubble on his chin. “No, it’s been a while. But my place burned, so . . . we have some cash, though. We can buy some clothes. If we make a list, can somebody run to the mall for us? I mean, since it’s not really safe for us to be on the street.”
“I guess so. We’ve done stranger things. I’ll send an agent.”
He eyed the keys on her desk. “Would a federal marshal object to escorting us to your place so we can grab a shower?”
She frowned, sliding the keys to him. “Anything else? Want a pizza?”
DeShear stood. “We should contact the owner of the stolen car in front of your house. The license tag on the vehicle isn’t his, but they can track him down from the VIN number. And there are two stolen guns under the front seat. I think that’s it. Oh, no, there’s another stolen car in Gainesville.”
She glared at him.
“Yeah, that’s it. Have I told you how pretty your eyes are?”
She spun around in the chair to face the wall and a stack of folders piled high in front of a mirror. “Go. Get coffee, food, a shower. Then get back here. We have a big meeting t
o put together.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Cammy.”
As he moved to the door, he glanced back. Camilla had leaned forward to the mirror and lifted her chin, gazing at her reflection’s eyes.
DeShear smiled. “See?”
She looked at him in the mirror. “Go!”
Chapter 17
The Greyhound held a brochure in his hand as he stared out the penthouse window. Clouds of morning mist lifted and floated over the churning waters of Niagara Falls, the rocks around the basin white with a thick coat of ice. The railings of the observation deck were white with ice, too, like an artists’ sketch that had run out of colors. Only a few people ventured out into the cold and past the wire Christmas trees to enjoy the view.
According to the brochure, the falls were to be bathed in colorful lights each night, and on New Year’s Eve there’d be fireworks as well.
“The view from anywhere in this hotel should be beautiful.” He tossed the pamphlet to the desk. “It’d be nice to use that to make a statement, somehow. Maybe throw Dr. Graff over the falls at the stroke of midnight. Maybe throw a few other board members from Angelus Genetics over, too. Really make a splash, so to speak.”
As Maya readied her equipment, Dominique tied a length of rubber band to his arm.
“Why do you hate them so much?” Maya asked.
“I don’t hate them.” He tossed the brochure into the trash can and pushed himself back on the large bed. “I’m fine.”
Dominique leaned in, lowering her voice. “You’re not fine.”
“Okay, have it your way. I’m not fine. I’ll never be fine again, and I don’t want to be. I hate what these people have done.” He yanked the tourniquet off his arm and stormed to the window. “I had everything. A great job as a hedge fund manager, flying all over the world trading equities. Boats, cars, houses. A beautiful young family.”
Britt and Maya stopped what they were doing, watching.
“I’d like to think I’m not motivated by hate, though, Maya. Some people might even say I’m being generous by not dragging this out somehow and hurting the people from Angelus the way they hurt others.” His eyes narrowed. “They bred us like cattle or dogs, selecting the attributes they wanted to advance without worrying about what other latent characteristics might tag along. And the poor pups that didn’t fit the bill? Oh, they were discarded like trash. Snuffed out, without a thought. Did you know, they even referred to us as dogs? It’s in the records I discovered. Dogs! That’s what we were to them.”
Dominique stood in silence next to the transfusion equipment that awaited its patient.
“They called the alpha group Airedales. The betas were Bassets.” He stared out the window. “And my group, the Gammas, we were Greyhounds.” His voice softened, his thoughts elsewhere. “I think referring to us as something other than human made the byproducts of their research more palatable for them. The Nazis did the same thing. Ironic, for a company named Angelus—‘Angel’—don’t you think?”
The Greyhound turned to face his confederates, scowling. “But if people hate them, it’s deserved. They earned it. Genetic changes don’t just affect the subject. It’s passed on. I watched so many die a slow, painful death because of what these monsters did. Then one day, my own children—one after the other, they’d fade and start their decline. As soon as we buried one, the next would get sick, like the Grim Reaper was taking turns as part of a sick game, to torture us.”
His gaze fell to the floor. “After our youngest passed away, Megan was overwhelmed with grief and depression. Just overwhelmed. There’s no word for that kind of pain. We tried to work through it. We saw counsellors. You eventually try to live life again, but you never really do. During my next business trip, she called me in tears. She said she couldn’t stand the pain, that all she could feel was darkness inside, and that each breath hurt to take.” He lifted his eyes to Dominique. They were brimming with tears. “I understood. I felt it, too.” The Greyhound swallowed hard, his voice a whisper. “Then she hung up and cut her arms open from the elbow to the wrist.”
He closed his eyes and leaned against the window frame, the palatial suite in front of him and the massive waterfall churning behind him. “Angelus took everything from me. From me and a lot of others. I was able to build a new life for myself, but a lot of others—innocent people, children—they suffered and died for no reason other than for Angelus Genetics’ bottom line.” He clenched his teeth. “If evil has a face, it smiles from the board room of Angelus Genetics, in the body of Dr. Marcus Hauser. And as long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll keep fighting to stop them.”
He stood, stepping to the bed, but stumbled.
“Doctor Carerra!” Britt ran forward, grabbing The Greyhound’s arm as he slumped to the floor.
Dominique went to him, cradling his head in her hands. “Tristan?” He didn’t respond. She glanced at Maya. “Help us get him to the bed.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Maya said. She grabbed one arm as Dominique held the other. Britt took hold of the legs, and they hoisted their unconscious patient onto the mattress.
Dominique leaned over him, gently lifting his eyelid and shining her pen light into his eye. “We need to start the transfusion, stat.” After checking the other eye, she went to the centrifuge and turned it on. “Maya, get your meds ready. Britt, bring more units of whole blood up from the van.”
He jumped up. “Yes, Doctor.”
Dominique pulled another rubber swatch from the box and slipped it over Tristan’s arm. “We have to act fast or we could lose him.”
Chapter 18
DeShear strolled past Camilla’s Christmas tree and into the kitchen. A large, muscular man with a square jaw and a crew cut followed him, wearing a khaki t-shirt that read “Federal Marshal” across the front. His camouflage fatigue pants appeared to have been recently ironed, and his face was unwavering and stern.
DeShear pulled the coffee maker forward on the counter. “Officer, would you like some coffee?”
“I would not.” He spit the words out like they tasted bad in his mouth.
“What about your fellow marshal?”
The officer straightened up and flexed his shoulders. “I’m sure neither I nor officer Vulpes wish to have any coffee with you or the other asset currently in our custody. Let’s not dawdle. Ms. Madison wants us back at her office asap.”
“Can’t go anywhere without clothes, my friend. When they get here, we’ll shower and dress as quickly as possible.” DeShear opened the coffee. “But I can’t get over feeling I must have wronged you somehow.”
“Let’s just say I don’t appreciate escorting a felon around, and that I’d prefer our other hard-working officers take care of the proper business of the federal marshal’s agency rather than be sent on a shopping trip to the mall.”
It was too much to unscramble to someone who didn’t seem to have an interest in the truth, so DeShear let it slide with an “I see.” Hopefully, within an hour they’d part ways, never to see each other again.
“I’ll have a cup.” A large, muscular, female federal marshal walked into the kitchen. “Thank you.”
DeShear looked at the officer with the crew cut, then called out to the living room. “Lanaya, coffee?”
“Are you making some, Hamilton? Are you sure that’s allowed?”
He gathered cups from the cabinet. “I think Cammy will understand the intrusion. We can only watch so much TV while we wait.”
“Then, yes, I’d like some very much.”
DeShear pressed a button on the front of the machine. With a beep, it came to life. “There we go.”
In the hallway, the doorbell rang with its elegant chimes. DeShear wagged his finger and grinned at the crew cut marshal. “Did you order a pizza?”
Frowning, the marshal headed to the door. He returned a moment later, following a third marshal holding several colorful paper shopping bags and a long plastic dress bag. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “Your clothes are here.”
Lanaya took the dress bag from her. “Thank goodness.”
Taking the remaining bags, DeShear moved past the other marshal. “Let’s do this again soon.”
Following Lanaya down the hall to the master bedroom, DeShear emptied a bag onto the bed. “Pretty sure whatever’s in that dress bag is for you. These men’s pants are probably for me.” He sifted through the garment packages. The next bag contained ladies’ underwear. “Oops. This bag is probably yours. In fact,” he glanced at the door. “I’m going to . . . if you want to go through the bags and pull out the men’s clothes, I’ll wait outside.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Lanaya said, dumping a bag onto the bed. “You were married. I’m sure there’s nothing in here you haven’t seen before.”
“No, but it’s rare to know my clients’ underwear choices.”
“I see. Rare, but not completely unknown, then.”
“I, um. I . . .”
“Why, Hamilton, I believe I’ve made you blush.” She leaned over the bed and rummaged through the bags, handing him items. “These would be yours. Here are socks and a belt. Here’s another, a shirt. That looks to be about it.” She stood up straight. “If you’ll use the bedroom upstairs to dress, I’ll see you in the living room in ten.”
“Sounds good.” He stepped into the hallway, then stopped. “Lanaya, there’s one more thing.”
He turned to face her, putting his hand on the door frame. “I’ll ask you this once, and whatever you say, goes—I won’t bother you with it again. You’ve gotten your family to a safe place. I don’t need to know where it is, but from what I’ve seen, you’re pretty good at that. If we’re successful in drawing the killers to Indonesia, that takes them away from your family, but it puts them in proximity to you. It’s very brave, but it’s also very dangerous. It puts you at risk, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” He shrugged, smiling. “I’ve kind of grown fond of you.”
A smile crept across Lanaya’s lips as well. “Possibly, you’ve merely grown fond of my money.”
