A large pool of dried blood extended around the body in an oval shape, stretching toward the end of the small driveway that joined the circular drive. This small section of asphalt serviced the four-bay garage, and the Mercedes was in a position where it had either been purposely parked outside of the garage, or had been stopped before making the turn into one of the bays. Edwards saw that the far garage bay door was open, and he looked back at the circular driveway, which was crammed with police vans, squad cars and SUV’s. He saw a few of the ever-present SWAT officers standing near one of the oversized SUV’s, cradling assault rifles. They were always looking for an excuse to dress up and parade around in their gear. At least they had their helmets off, though he could think of no conceivable reason why they would need to be carrying military style weaponry on this estate.
He returned his attention to the garage bay door.
“Anything out of order inside?” he said.
“Not that anyone could tell. So far, the crime scene techs haven’t found anything useful. Right now, they’re focusing on the outside, looking for anything the killer might have left us while breaching the perimeter,” said D’Angelo.
“Have they checked the seaside approach? You heard about Rhode Island, right?”
“Just that the guy there was shot. Did they find a boat or something?” she said.
She obviously hadn’t been brought into the circle on this one, and that was fine with Edwards. Sharpe didn’t want to alert the rest of the terrorist network responsible for last night’s murderfest, and had imposed a media blackout. So far, only one internet article had been written by a local Newport, Rhode Island publication, and they had graciously agreed to remove it while the investigation proceeded. Edwards hadn’t realized that the same information blackout applied to the rest of the FBI. This was exactly why he would never accept a posting like D’Angelo’s. He couldn’t stomach the concept of being an outsider.
“They need to give the seaside approaches the same attention as the perimeter fence. That’s all I can say for now. What about the body and the car? Do they need to process this?” he said.
“No, they’re finished here, and in the house, unless we get specific information regarding the residence,” she said.
“Do you trust them? I have a team showing up in an hour.”
“I have a close working relationship with the lead investigator and his team. They’re competent, thorough and I’ve used them before when other assets weren’t available. This isn’t the most complicated murder, but I understand the importance of this case,” she said, and Edwards highly doubted she truly understood the implications.
“We’ll have our own team talk to the locals that processed the body, then they’ll take a quick look together. Looks pretty straightforward. The key here will be finding something to lead us back to the killer. Frankly, I’m not very hopeful.”
“Aside from massive blood loss,” he continued, tracing the wide swath of dried blood back to the circular drive, “what is the initial assessment for cause of death?”
“Mr. Ghani has a deep penetration wound at the front of his neck, slightly to the right, which severed his carotid artery instantly, and probably damaged his spine at the same time. Anthony Boudreau, the forensics chief, said the wound indicated the work of a professional…possibly a sick one,” she said.
“What did he mean by that?” said Edwards.
“Boudreau said the killer held the knife deep inside Ghani, and scrambled things up pretty bad. He couldn’t tell how big of a blade, but based on the tearing around the neck, he’s pretty sure the killer fished it around for a while, which he thought was unusual,” said D’Angelo.
“Boudreau has a lot of experience with cuts like this?” he said, not convinced that a Portland, Maine based forensics guy would have the extensive experience to make this kind of assessment.
“He worked forensics in New York City for twenty-three years,” she commented and paused. “Said the knife attack resembled one of several used by commandos or special forces to instantly disable sentries, but that this particular method was not typically their first choice. He said the most common surprise knife attack put the blade through the back of the victim’s neck, high up near the skull, which instantly severed the spinal cord at its highest point. Instant shutdown. Scrambled the brain too, if the knife passed into the skull.”
“Sounds wonderful. What’s wrong with Mr. Ghani’s wound?”
“Nothing, really. This cut kills just as effectively, but doesn’t always sever the spinal cord. If it does, the cord is cut below the entry wound. It’s an extremely painful death, if the shock doesn’t kill you instantly. Boudreau said the Russian Spetznaz specialized in this one. He also thinks this one twisted the knife around more than necessary. I wouldn’t want to run into the person that pulled this off,” she finished.
“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what we need to do,” he said.
“I’m going to familiarize myself with the grounds. If you could have the forensics teams start to look at potential seaside approaches, I can send a comprehensive initial report as soon as my team takes a quick look around,” he said.
“Do you want me to introduce you to some of the key players on the local force?” she asked.
“That’s alright. I’d rather you handled them. If I need anything, I’ll go through you,” he said, hoping she didn’t press the issue.
He hated dealing with the local cops. Absently shaking hands with everyone who had a horse in the race, even if their horse had no chance of winning. He’d have to make pleasantries with Cape Elizabeth’s police chief, and hear about how officer “whoever” responded to the call and made sure to preserve the scene. He’d then commit his entire police force of ten officers to help Edwards in any way possible. Please. Same thing for several other towns and two counties, finally graduating to the Portland Police Department, the only people he slightly cared to interact with. He preferred to remain aloof, which would generate more respect in the long run. Plus, he could make D’Angelo feel important, and foster her relationship with the people she’d need to work with long after he departed.
“Okay…let me know if you need anything. I’ll be talking with Boudreau,” she said, and stepped away.
He watched her walk away, and his eyes were drawn to the front gate of the estate. He watched two women jog by the entrance along Shore Road, slowing as they passed to get a look at the commotion. They were both thin, dressed in athletic shorts and one of them wore a tight pink tank top. The other wore a tight, yellow half-shirt that resembled a jog bra. He loved seeing women in tight athletic gear, which was the primary reason he belonged to a massive chain-operated gym near his apartment in Alexandria, Virginia. He fantasized about having a threesome with these women on the patio of a house like Mr. Ghani’s, but suddenly had a thought that interrupted his daydream, which was a rarity for Edwards. Once he focused in on a woman, or two women, it usually took more than a random thought to pull him back to reality.
This thought jumped out at him, and it was related to the women he just witnessed running by the house. Anyone could run in the gate while it was open. Maybe the killer simply walked in after Ghani passed through the gate.
“D’Angelo!” he yelled.
She turned around, already halfway to the forensics van and several officers drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee. He could use some coffee, he thought, but not that stuff. The officer that D’Angelo had sent to pick him up at Portland’s Jetport didn’t seem to know where to find coffee other than at Dunkin Donuts, and was of no help to Edwards in his search for a proper cappuccino. He should have grabbed one in Portland’s sad excuse for an airport, but the line at the small Starbucks kiosk was eight deep, and the workers behind the counter didn’t look like the Starbucks A-team, so he passed.
“What?”
“What was Boudreau’s estimation for Ghani’s time of death?” he yelled.
“6 PM, roughly,” she yelled back.
“Than
ks,” he said.
A broad daylight killing took some nerve. He glanced at the gate again and wondered if the killer hadn’t just jogged in behind the Mercedes and stabbed him. He’d counted six joggers already, and that was in the morning, during the workday. There would be twice as many in the evening, after work. Not a bad cover to slip onto the estate. He turned back to the body, wondering if Ghani had an espresso machine.
Chapter Nine
11:22 AM
Portland, Maine
Petrovich steered his BMW over Woodford Street’s faded median line and onto Lawn Avenue, barely squeezing his car in front of a battered green Chevy Caprice Classic. He could still hear the Caprice’s horn two driveways down Lawn Avenue. He instantly drew annoyed stares from a pair of perfectly manicured stroller pushers, and eased off the gas, nodding an apology in their direction. Still pushing the speed limit of his neighborhood, he rolled cautiously through two stop signs before arriving at his house. The top of his sedan barely cleared the garage door as it lurched into the darkness.
He wasted little time inside the house. Upon returning to his office, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time spent watching Power Point presentations, Daniel found a message, handwritten by one of his assistants on a Zenith memo pad.
“From Jeff Hill, VP, Sanderson Resources: Have further business proposition. Would like to meet and discuss recent acquisition of Newport based assets. Acquisition of Portland assets likely in very near future. My schedule is clear to meet tonight or early tomorrow.”
The message was clear. Somehow the Feds had nabbed Sanderson’s Newport shooter, and the general wanted him out of town immediately. He had stared at the handwritten note, trying to rationalize any way he could stay, but it served no purpose. He had known since yesterday that their time in Portland might be drawing to a close. The reality started to sink in as he had watched the local news with Jessica earlier that morning.
While sipping coffee and making distracted small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.
He passed through the kitchen and scrambled into the basement, fumbling to turn on the lights. The cool, moist air entered his lungs as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the center of the dimly lit subterranean storage area. A few cardboard boxes sat against the closest wall, next to a dozen evenly stacked dusty plastic bins. The labels on the bins indicated that they were filled with seasonal clothing, professional books, and camping supplies.
He continued to the furthest reaches of the basement, until he reached the boiler and oil tank. Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor in front of the boiler. Daniel opened a box near the oil tank, and removed the briefcase given to him yesterday. He opened the case to examine its contents again. One file, which he needed to permanently destroy, but not at the house. One Heckler and Koch USP 9mm, with silencer. He might need this weapon in the very near future.
Daniel replaced the contents and headed toward the large plastic bins. He removed the two top most bins from a stack in the middle, sliding them to the floor haphazardly. The remaining bin, labeled “Old Clothes,” sat exposed between two stacks of green plastic.
He reached down and ripped the duct tape from the sides of the plastic storage container, which hadn’t been opened in over a year. The bin, which emitted the musty smell of old clothes, was stuffed with dated sweaters and oversized sweatshirts. Petrovich buried his arms into the stacks of clothing, and pulled out two black nylon gym bags, spilling clothing onto the concrete floor.
He tossed the bags behind him, along with the briefcase, and recreated the orderly scene he encountered upon first descending the basement stairs. With the bins back in place, he ascended the stairs to pack a small carry-on bag, which would be all he needed beyond the three items retrieved from the basement.
Five minutes later, Daniel backed the BMW out of the garage and onto the street. He pulled forward several feet and stopped to stare at his house through the passenger window. He leaned over the center console to get a better view and exhaled softly.
A low, white picket fence outlined the front yard, extending along the driveway to the attached garage, which extended from the small yellow Cape Cod style home. Dark green shutters accented the white window panes, competing with the neatly trimmed evergreen bushes reaching upward toward the bottom of the window trim. Just beyond the picket fence, two large maple trees flanked a red brick walkway that ended at an oversized granite stoop under the matching green front door.
“We almost did it,” he muttered, and took his foot off the brake.
He doubted he would ever see the house again, or any of the memories contained within it. He knew it didn’t really matter, but it was hard to conceptualize abandoning the physical remnants of their life together. Nothing could go with them. There simply hadn’t been enough time. This house, their friends, his office…all of it. He had simply walked out of Zenith Semiconductor without a word, and would never return. He didn’t really have a choice. Neither of them did. It was a simple matter of survival.
Chapter Ten
12:45 PM
FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts
Agent Olson stepped out of the interrogation room into the darkened observation deck, closed the door tightly, and walked in front of the one-way mirror. She stared through it at Jeffrey Munoz, who was attached to several electronic monitoring leads. Laptop computers set up on a table along the far wall of the observation room analyzed the bio-metric feedback. Gregory Carlisle sat across the desk from Munoz with his hands crossed. Three agents and a few technicians sat scattered around the room, in front of the interrogation equipment. One of the agents, a young, sharp faced woman with short hair, closely analyzed a large flat screen display of various vital signs.
“What do you think?” Olson uttered, without taking her gaze off Munoz.
“Bio says he’s nervous as hell, but I’m not getting any of the traditional markers associated with deception. If this was a standard observation, I’d say the suspect was telling the truth…but given the circumstances, I think it would be prudent to change the interrogation parameters, and see how he responds. His base stress level hasn’t changed much since we started taking readings. It’s high, but I haven’t seen any significant changes,” said the agent, turning her head toward Olson.
“It doesn’t surprise me, given what he’s said so far. Tell Greg to walk out of the room, and let Munoz sit there for a few minutes, then come back in and tell him that there is no way he’ll be given any deal. I want Greg to mention that he’ll be transferred within the hour to Logan Airport for further transport. Tell Greg to be very nebulous about Munoz’s final destination, but have him throw in a hint that Munoz might be a little warm in the clothes he’s wearing. I want this guy to think he’s being rendered to a location outside of the country. We’ll see if his story holds together.”
“You got it,” said the agent, with a smirk of approval hidden by the dark.
Chapter Eleven
12:56 PM
Washington D.C. Beltway
Retired Brigadier General Terrence Sanderson leaned back into the leather comfort of the Suburban’s rear seat. He dialed one of several disposable cell phones available to him in his briefcase. He had dozens more stashed in several locations around the D.C. metro area, and hundreds placed in other likely areas of operation along the Mid-Atlantic seacoast. He had gone “dark” several days ago, moving back and forth from several secret locations.
A few of the locations were known only to him, and were untraceable by any means. He had plotted and planned this day’s events for over a year. Some of the key links in the chain had been coordinated years ago. He was a careful, patient soldie
r, and had left little to chance, except for Petrovich. He hadn’t counted on using Petrovich for one of the assassinations, but circumstances had conspired, and Sanderson had little choice. The gamble had worked flawlessly, and might pay further dividends if he handled the situation properly.
“You did an excellent job with Petrovich. From what I can tell, he did the job…maybe a little too well. Knife work was never one of his loves,” said Sanderson.
“Maybe sending us a message? He didn’t look pleased to have been dragged back into this,” Parker said, glancing back over the top of the driver’s seat.
“Truthfully, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Ghani had woken up to a glorious sunrise over the Atlantic. I gave the entire situation a fifty percent chance. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Seven, six…even five murders would have been enough to cause a panic in the Hoover building. All eight? Icing on the cake. Is he headed our way?”
“Yeah, he should arrive on the ground by four at the latest. Should we be worried?” said Parker.
“With Petrovich, you should always be worried. I’m pretty sure he’ll need us as much as we might still need him. He’s one of the best we ever graduated…and by far the most productive in the field. Who knows, we might get him back, or…” he trailed off.
“Or what?”
“Or we could have a war on our hands. Unlikely though. He’s one of the most practical individuals I have ever dealt with. Hold that thought, I need to check in with someone,” he said, and dialed the phone he had been holding near his ear.
The call was answered on the second ring.
“Colonel Farrington, Special Information Division. How can I help you?”
“Hello, Colonel. Major General Smith here. Just checking to see how my information requests are proceeding?”
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