The Gamma Sequence

by Dan Alatorre

  “You said you didn’t have a lot of money.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Guess that’s not it, then.” DeShear locked onto her eyes, his face serious. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to do this. The people we’ve involved now, they’re professionals. They can handle everything from here. If you don’t like the odds, say the word and you can be out—no questions asked. You can watch it all from the sidelines and no one will think less of you. Tricking killers to come after us, that’s a risky game, and there are no do-overs.”

  She folded her hands in front of her, looking down. “Hamilton, people are fond of saying that humans and dolphins share ninety-seven percent of the same DNA. Some say dolphins and humans are closely related—even though our most recent common ancestor died ninety-five million years ago. Humans and chimps share ninety-eight percent of the same DNA, but we can talk and they can climb trees with their feet.” She lifted her gaze and stared out the window. “The science of genetics is a journey into an amazing, powerful world, and it has fascinated me since I was a child, because it’s the little things in genetics that make all the difference.” Her eyes met his. “We share a high percentage of DNA with fuzzy animals and cute sea creatures, but we share 100% of the same DNA as mass murderers like Jeffrey Dahmer, the Son of Sam, and Adolph Hitler. That’s reality. When we bring a gene forward, who knows what things are brought with it? Given another roll of the dice, with the wrong environment and a little neglect, those things could create a group of Charles Mansons instead of Mother Theresas. I took part in what happened at Angelus. It may have been an unknowing role, but that doesn’t change the end result. A long time ago, I decided I wouldn’t sit by and let others do what I considered to be my responsibility. I need to try to correct what I am responsible for.”

  “Can’t talk you out of it, huh?”

  “I called you, remember? If I was able to be talked out of it, I’d have never started into any of this. Besides, we may be headed to Indonesia, but the destination is a genetics lab. That’s my turf.”

  * * * * *

  “Thank you for coming.” Camilla shook the hand of fire marshal Harmon Crenny and a lieutenant from the Tampa police force; then she greeted Mark Harriman. “Please, sit down. We’ll be starting soon.”

  Harriman took a seat, leaning forward to whisper to his host. “Is Hank here, Cammy? I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

  “So would I,” grumbled the fire marshal.

  “I know you all have business with Mr. DeShear, and you’ll speak with him soon.” Camilla sat, looking at the small group assembled in front of her. “But he is a principal source in an IRS matter that we are exploring, and it is of the utmost urgency. I’ll ask that you respect federal-state-county hierarchy and let us maintain him as our resource until the matter is closed. That said, I will let him speak with you, and he should be here any—well, speak of the devil.” She stood. “Here is now.”

  DeShear strutted forth, in clean clothes and a necktie, leading a little parade of federal marshals, an IRS agent, and his client. He smiled as he approached Camilla’s group. “Remain seated, everyone.”

  Harriman jumped to his feet, frowning. “Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?”

  “Sorry, buddy.” DeShear clapped him on the shoulder. “Had to power my phone down to keep some killers from, well, killing us.”

  The federal marshal with the crew cut approached Camilla. “Ms. Madison, will you have any further need of us?”

  She nodded. “Stay close. It’s a secure building, but we’ll be assembling the task force and possibly leaving quickly. Coordinate with your sergeant, and be ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The fire marshal growled at Deshear. “Don’t think some fancy footwork by your ex-wife will save your butt from arson charges, son. They’re on my desk, signed and ready to go.”

  DeShear swallowed and looked at Camilla. “Not while I’m working for the feds, right?”

  “Maybe not.” Crenny scowled. “But the minute they’re done with you, I take you away—in handcuffs. And that’ll be sooner than you think.”

  Camilla raised her hands like a traffic cop. “I’m sure there’s no need for—”

  “What the . . .” Harriman stared at Lanaya, his jaw hanging open. “It’s you.”

  Lanaya backed away, her face a puzzle.

  “You okay, there, Mark?” DeShear said.

  Harriman whipped around to him. “What are you up to?” he hissed.

  “I guess our pictures finally got around from the park shooting and the other stuff. It’s all—”

  “Other stuff?”

  “It’s nothing.” DeShear shrugged. “Well, it’s not nothing, but it’s a self-defense shooting. We were completely in the right, we just didn’t have time to stay and clear it up. But we will. Promise. That’s all gonna go away.”

  “But . . .” Harriman glanced at Camilla, then back to DeShear. “We need to talk. Now. In private.”

  “Can it wait until after the meeting?” Camilla asked, taking a glimpse at a wall clock.

  Harriman grabbed DeShear by the arm. “I don’t think so, Cammy. Can I use your office for a minute?”

  “We’re waiting for a link up to Washington. I’d prefer we don’t keep the vice president waiting.”

  “The vice president?” DeShear said. “Holy cow.”

  “Yeah, you said some of the right buzz words.” Camilla stood, pointing to the clock. “Genetics and money laundering had the director’s eyes glazing over, but when I said human trafficking, that lit him on fire. That’s a hot button for the vice president, and that got us a big green light for our official inquiry.”

  Official inquiry was a coded term for what the IRS asked for right before one of its raids. The board of directors of the company in question would turn their noses up at an official inquiry, getting some blustering lawyer to request a postponement, then the Fast Fly team would kick down the doors, having already been staged. The IRS investigators seized everything, in every location, while the executives at the home office peed down their legs. Camilla had delivered.

  “Money laundering? Human trafficking?” Fire marshal Crenny narrowed his eyes. “DeShear, what kinds of seedy crap y’all involved in, son?”

  “Not him, sir,” Camilla said. “The people he’s been reporting to us about.”

  “Reporting?” Crenny echoed, pounding the arm of his chair. “Reporting?”

  “Yes,” Camilla nodded. “We’re using Mr. DeShear and his client as informants.”

  “How long has that—”

  “Would everyone like to join me in the conference area?” She walked away from the fire marshal and pointed to a large glass room with a long table centered in it. “The vice president will be on the video call with the director.”

  “We’ll be right there.” Red-faced, Harriman dragged DeShear into Camilla’s office and shut the door.

  “What’s up with you?” DeShear said, shaking his arm from his friend’s grip. “I know I didn’t call the fire investigators back, and that was wrong of me. But like I said, the bad guys were shooting in my direction at the time.”

  “Did you open the emails I sent you?” Harriman put his hands on his hips, shaking his head and staring at the floor. His face remained red. “On your phone or anywhere?”

  “No. I powered down, and we’ve been on the run.”

  “I sent you an image of the arsonist.” Harriman put his hand to his temple. “You didn’t check it?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “I’ve got some bad news for you, then.” Harriman stared at Camilla’s group as they crossed the lobby and filed into the conference room. He pointed to Lanaya. “The arsonist in the picture is your client.”

  Chapter 19

  The motel door burst open, its wooden frame splintering as its door knob shot across the floor. Jim Clayman leaped off the bed, racing for the gun laying on the tiny desk.

  “Don’t try it.” Two
men and a woman charged through the broken door. The closest intruder, sporting a shaved head and a dark brown goatee, spoke first. “There are more of us than there are of you, and we’re better armed.”

  Clayman stared at the intruders. They stood side by side, each pointing a large gun at him. Two said nothing, just kept their guns aimed at his head.

  He slowly sat back down onto the bed.

  “You called your employer and said you were out,” the man with the goatee said. “He says you’re not.”

  “What?” Clayman said.

  “You said the situation in Centennial Park was amateur hour. Well, now he’s hired some professionals, and we say you’re not out until the boss says the job is done. Is that understood?”

  Staring at the three large guns pointed at him, Clayman nodded.

  “You didn’t do your job, little bird dog. You were supposed to keep eyes on the targets, and you ran away instead. That’s amateur. So now you’re going to come with us and make things right.”

  Clayman swallowed hard. “How?”

  “We’ll explain in the car. Let’s go.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, you think you’re in a position to ask us questions, huh? Okay. I’m Elvis Presley.” He pointed to the others. “That’s Janet Jackson on the left, and the other one is George Michael.” Elvis raised his gun and smashed it into Clayman cheek, sending the hostage’s head back. “Any other stupid questions?”

  Clayman gasped, putting a hand to his face. Blood covered his fingers.

  Elvis leaned in close, raising his voice. “I asked you a question. I expect you to answer me. Do you have any more questions of any kind, at this time, for myself or my associates?”

  Clayman flinched. “No.”

  “Then let’s go.” Elvis stepped back and gave him a big grin. “We have a car in the parking lot. Walk to it quickly and quietly. Don’t say a word. If you try anything funny—or anything at all—we’ll shoot you to death right there in the parking lot. Don’t think we won’t.” Elvis waved his gun at the door. “You’ll disappear like your targets did, but you won’t be on your feet.”

  He grabbed Clayman by the collar and hoisted him up. “When the big boss pays you to do a job, you do the job. You don’t call him and say you quit. The big boss decides when you’re done working for him. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  Elvis drew back and cracked Clayman with the gun again. “You say ‘yes sir’ when you’re talking to me.”

  Clayman howled in pain, blood dripping from his mouth and other cheek. “Yes, sir!”

  Gritting his teeth, Elvis put his nose to Clayman’s, whispering. “I’m about three seconds from putting a couple of rounds into your chest and two in the back of your head. So smarten up, little bird dog.” He spaced his next words for emphasis. “You’re . . . not . . . calling . . . the shots.”

  With Janet Jackson holding one arm and George Michael holding the other, they crossed the parking lot toward a gray sedan. As they neared it, Elvis dug in his pocket and pulled out a key fob. The car lights flickered and the trunk popped open.

  “No!” Clayman kicked and twisted. “No! No!”

  Elvis stopped and turned to face the hostage, shaking his head. “Some people just don’t listen.” He gripped his gun and brought the butt down on the back of Clayman’s skull. The hostage sagged in the arms of his escorts.

  * * * * *

  DeShear stormed into the conference room, with Harriman following him. Camilla and her assistant were tinkering with the A/V projector. Around the large conference table sat the police lieutenant, the fire marshal, several IRS agents, and representatives from the FBI and the federal marshal service.

  “I need to borrow my client for a minute,” DeShear said, walking up to Lanaya and pulling back her chair. She stood, her jaw hanging open.

  “Will you quit screwing around?” Camilla said. “The meeting’s about to start!”

  A blue image appeared on the left half of the wall screen, displaying the seal of the Vice President of the United States. The right side flashed the words, “connecting,” and then went to an image of several people sitting around a small table, the IRS Directors logo on the wall behind them. A woman’s voice came over the monitor. “Bureau Chief Madison, we now have you connected with Director Fleming. Please hold for the Vice President.”

  DeShear and Lanaya headed into the lobby.

  “Dash! What are you doing?” Camilla called after them.

  The conference door swung shut. DeShear walked briskly, his hand at the middle of Lanaya’s back.

  “Hamilton, I do not appreciate being manhandled.” She took his hand and pushed it away. “Please.”

  He kept walking. “Stay quiet and get in here.”

  Entering Camilla’s office, her pushed the door closed and turned to his client. “I’m going to ask you one time, and then I turn you over to the fire marshal and Harriman. What did you do?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean! My apartment. The fire. No more lies. Out with it.”

  “I do not appreciate—”

  “Enough!” He pressed his hands against the sides of his head, pacing back and forth in the office. “They have pictures, Lanaya. Images of you walking around my apartment building ten minutes before the whole place went up in flames. The neighbor in the next building identified you. She knows me. She saw you go into my unit right before the fire.”

  Lanaya stood rigid. “Whatever the authorities have, I assure you, they do not have pictures of me.”

  “What, it’s your evil twin sister? It’s you! You’re wearing the same running shoes.”

  “If you check, you will see those are a very popular brand and style. Over three hundred pairs were sold in the greater Tampa Bay area this year.”

  “Stop!” His cheeks grew hot. “Just tell me why. They wanna hang this on me. They think I conspired with you. And in a few minutes, when Camilla’s meeting is over, those two guys—the fire marshall and the police lieutenant—they’re gonna talk to Harriman, who will mention the uncanny resemblance you have to their suspect. Then one of us is going to jail. Well, it’s not going to be me, sister. I didn’t burn my place and I sure didn’t conspire to have it burned. Everything I had was in there. But you—you probably waited for me to leave, and then—”

  “Arson is a very serious matter.” Lanaya’s tone was calm and even. “Frankly, I’m offended you think I’m capable of such a thing. I’m certain they ensured everyone was out of the building first—whoever the arsonist was.”

  DeShear shook his head. “You did it, didn’t you?”

  “As I said previously, no, I didn’t do it.”

  “Okay, so some random woman who just happens to be your height and build and hair color, and with the same facial features and the same running shoes, comes by my place when you just happen to be in town, and she—she just wanders by, and—”

  Lanaya looked directly into his eyes. “Would you have believed me?”

  “What? Believed what?”

  She kept her eyes locked on his, her voice falling to a whisper. “My case. The links between the deaths, the Propofol. Would you have believed me if you hadn’t seen for yourself what these people were capable of?”

  “I—I already said yes to meeting you when—”

  “You wanted to turn it over to the police, as I recall. You said so several times in our meeting. You humored me for the large fee I offered, but it wasn’t until you saw your own self in danger that you really signed on.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not true, and don’t try to turn this around.”

  “Turn what? Those were real bullets they shot at us in Atlanta. Did I stage that, too?”

  “Atlanta was real, but . . .”

  “And the murders. Those were real. Or did I kill Dr. Braunheiser and Emmet Kincaid and Nilla Cunde and a dozen other people? Wake up. This is all real. People are dying. And whoever burned your place, they
saved your life.”

  “How in the world do you figure that?”

  She proceeded to the window that looked into the lobby, toying with the cord that controlled the blinds. “Were they only shooting at me in Atlanta? They shot at you, too. I said we were linked, and we are. Atlanta proved that. If someone burned your place to get you away from it, they did you a favor—whoever it was. And any conscientious person would ensure there were no people remaining in the building first.”

  “It’s—Lanaya, this is a big deal. This—that fire marshal is gonna string you up, and me right along with you. They play for keeps.”

  “Then let them!” She turned to him. “The killers play for keeps, too. We learned that in Atlanta, when they killed several innocent people simply to get to us. I play for keeps as well. I’m in this thing, and I’m staying in. If someone who looks like me burned down your apartment, let the police and fire marshal do their jobs. They’ll see Lanaya Kim was nowhere near Tampa until her flight came in an hour before our meeting. There wasn’t enough time to get there, do what they propose, and still get to the meeting.”

  “Lanaya . . .”

  “Hamilton, I will not keep repeating myself. It’s decision time. The cards are dealt.” She pointed to the glass conference room. “Your ex-wife has the Vice President on the phone to send a squad of auditors and armed personnel overseas to deal with a situation that twenty-four hours ago they didn’t even know existed.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked down. “I think this might change things.”

  “Does it?” She went to him. “The fire marshal and police are ready to arrest the woman in the picture, and yet they’ve subordinated their interests for the bigger cause—a cause that needs your help. I certainly can’t do this without you. But I’ll respect your decision. You must be true to your own sense of what’s right.”

  He stared at her, chewing his lip.

  “Hamilton, you might be a private investigator right now, but you weren’t always, and it’s not your true calling. A blind man could see it, but somehow you can’t. You’re destined to be a hero and save lives—through whatever format fate chooses to manifest it—but make no mistake, that is your true calling. It’s your nature to stand up to the bad in the world, and that will always drive you, no matter what your job title is. And that’s who I need with me for this.”