Lone Hunter: Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 3

by D. F. Bailey

  “What? That’s crazy.”

  “Yes, I agree.” He shrugged away the objection. “In any case, now I’ve chosen you, Mr. Finch.”

  “What?” Finch froze. He tried to think, tried to calculate something he could do to prevent impending disaster.

  “Your fingerprints,” Whitelaw whispered, his chin tipped slightly to indicate the gun.

  “No!”

  Whitelaw inserted his thumb through the finger guard and pressed the trigger. The pistol fired with a taut bang that echoed through the room and into the hall corridor. He collapsed at Finch’s feet, and his body twitched in two long, rolling spasms arcing outward from his chest.

  Finch kneeled at his side and inspected his face, then tried to detect a pulse in his wrist. Nothing.

  Will stood and gazed at the floor. The pistol lay next to his cellphone. For the first time he could see it clearly: a Colt Cobra .38 Special. Except for the black hand grip, the revolver was identical to Eve’s gun. Then he heard the pounding at the front door. The sound of Jeb Peterson about to barrel into the room and beat Finch into unconsciousness. He tried to think what to do. But there were no options. No choices to make.

  Seconds later Jeb Peterson ran down the front hall. When he entered the living room he saw the senator lying on the floor, a widening pool of blood seeping under his corpse. He saw the phone. The gun.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “…He shot himself….”

  Peterson stared at Finch. Jeb’s eyes were on fire. “Like hell he did.”

  He clipped Finch in the face with a jab, then doubled him over with a blow to the belly. An upper-cut to the jaw dropped him to the floor. As he lay on the ground next to the senator, Finch groaned in pain. A final kick to the side of his head put him out of his misery.

  ※

  When Finch came to, he found himself sitting on his butt, handcuffed and leaning against the kitchen wall. A medic closed the cut under his chin and taped a compress to the seeping wound above his ear. A second medic helped load the senator’s corpse onto a gurney and wheel him away. As two police officers took a statement from Peterson, five or six other cops wandered through the rooms, taking photos and videos while two forensic experts made their assessments.

  “Come on, Finch,” a burley cop braced him under his biceps and lifted Will to his feet. “You got one long night a head of you. Franco, you got him?” he said to his partner.

  “Yeah. I got him. You lead the way, Jonny.”

  Supported by the two cops, Finch staggered forward and then slumped against the bar counter where Whitelaw had braced himself after his tirade on the patio. Unable to control his feet, he crashed to the floor again. Fortunately, his hands had been cuffed in front of his waist and he could brace himself for the fall.

  “On your feet, man,” Jonny said. “Up and at ‘em.”

  In a moment of clarity, Finch glanced around the room. Where was his computer? His phone and courier bag? Before he could ask, the cops propped him on his feet again and frog-marched him through Whitelaw’s photo gallery, into the exterior corridor and a waiting elevator car. As they descended to the main floor Finch regained his senses enough to realize the desperate situation he faced.

  With his phone and computer confiscated the evidence to confirm his innocence was in jeopardy. Good thing he’d emailed the audio interview file to Wally. Had he received it yet? He tried to calculate the time in San Francisco and gave up. The main thing, he told himself, was to preserve everything that proved Senator Whitelaw had committed suicide.

  Franco and Jonny marched him out of the building onto the short pedestrian mall that led up to K Street. Twenty feet along the brick road, four squad cars were parked with their lights blinking: red-blue-red-blue. Beyond them a crowd had gathered. The steady glare of two high-end video cameras illuminated the road as the gathering news teams collected raw footage of Finch’s walk of shame. When Franco and Jonny guided him past a row of four concrete planters, Finch stumbled again. As he fell forward he wriggled free of the cops who held him lightly by his forearms. Sprawling on the ground, Finch turned his cuffed hands up and to his left, slipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and drew the SD card into his palm.

  “Get up, Finch. You got a lot further to walk than this, man.” Jonny coaxed him back onto his feet.

  He was kinder than Finch expected and when he turned to thank him, he tossed the SD card behind the cop’s back and into one of the planters. “Thanks,” he whispered, just loud enough for both cops to appreciate his gratitude.

  “All right, Jonny. Enough already. He killed a senator for God’s sake.” Franco tugged Finch toward the first squad car. “Let’s get this creep locked up.”

  Taking charge now, Franco swung open the back door and pressed down on Finch’s head as he shoved him onto the back seat. Before he shut the door he looked at Finch with a doubtful grin.

  “You’re about to start the first day of the rest of your life, asshole. Good luck.”

  ※ — FIFTEEN — ※

  EVE COULD FEEL her blood pressure rising. Sochi’s horrible death from ricin poisoning had marked her and Finch for special consideration by Homeland Security and the FBI. Now they were turning up the heat.

  “The FBI position is dead simple,” Eve told Fran Bransome, her long-standing lawyer and friend. “Basically they said, Give us the software so we don’t have to worry about you and your reporter boyfriend.”

  “Speaking of Will,” Fran said, “where is he now?”

  “In Washington interviewing Senator Whitelaw. He’s due back tonight.”

  “Good. Given the circumstances, it might be wise not to lose sight of one another.

  “All right, look,” Fran continued. “I can try to block the FBI subpoena in court, but you know the story. The Feds always hold a higher trump card.”

  “Of course.” Eve gazed through Fran’s office window at the Transamerica Pyramid. Fran had represented her during the wrongful dismissal lawsuit with the SFPD. She’d been an excellent attorney then, but now she seemed more tentative and unsure of her footing. In the past Eve trusted her completely, but this time she wondered.

  “Part of me,” she confessed, “wants to turn everything over to them and be done with it.”

  Fran nodded as if to encourage her. “Definitely an option. It will relieve you of enormous legal stress.”

  “But unless something unforeseen happens, after Toeplitz’s and Gianna’s estates are cleared through probate, the software belongs to me. Right?”

  “Yes. Assuming the Whitelaw family loses their claim to Gianna’s estate. And neither her will, nor Toeplitz’s provide much wiggle-room. Furthermore a Japanese judge in the landmark Mt. Gox case just declared that bitcoin is, quote, ‘not subject to ownership.’ In short, bitcoin is a liquid asset and whoever holds it, has it only for the time it’s in their possession. Even though it’s a foreign ruling, it adds weight to your claim to the bitcoin wallet and the GIGcoin software.”

  “So. I was a cop long enough to know that once material is surrendered to support an on-going investigation, chances of it being permanently confiscated, lost, eliminated, altered — or simply stolen are about five percent.”

  Fran shrugged again. “Sounds about right.”

  “The other thing is this. With GIGcoin still in my hands the Feds will keep tracking me. But once I surrender the software, all I am is a lame duck witness to Witowsky and Malinin’s crimes. And frankly, Witowsky or Malinin could kill me to ensure I never testify against them.”

  Fran glanced away to mull over the possibilities. Eve had told her the entire saga and neither of them doubted the jeopardy she and Will Finch faced as long as Witowsky or Malinin were on the loose. And the fact that Witowsky had failed to report for duty with the SFPD was worrisome. When she turned back to Eve she tried to smile.

  “All right. I’ll try to block the Fed subpoena to seize the software on the grounds that ownership of GIGcoin is already subject to dispute in
Gianna’s estate probate. Our position will be that lawful possession must be established before it can be surrendered.”

  “Good.”

  “Looks like we can thank the Whitelaws for pursuing a rear-guard action to claim Gianna’s estate,” she continued. “Maybe I can delay our defense against the Whitelaws for a day or two, but if we wait longer it might actually strengthen their case that they’re the rightful owners. Which we definitely have to avoid.”

  “Okay, do it. Two days will take us into the weekend.” And with any luck, she thought, Witowsky and Malinin would be behind bars by Monday. Either that or dead.

  ※

  Shortly after six A.M. Wally Gimbel sat at his kitchen table and sipped his coffee. He liked it black, hot and fresh, as if he’d just poured the coffee straight out of the beans. No additives, no derivatives, no nonsense. He loved this time of day and the morning rituals he’d developed over the years. His wife still slept in the room at the top of the stairs. His black lab, Carmen, dozed at his feet. The view from his apartment on Telegraph Hill looked onto the Bay Bridge and the sunrise in the distance. The day was young, so full of possibility.

  He turned on his Android tablet and watched as the notifications menu cascaded down his screen. World news headlines, sports scores, stock reports, his daily meeting scheduler, the Bay area weather forecast, Word-of-the-day. And twenty-three new emails, including two from Finch. He opened the first and scanned the article about the murder of Sochi and the implied links to an unnamed Russian oligarch. A solid bit of writing, typical of Will. Then he opened the second email. No message, just an audio file of Finch’s interview with Whitelaw. He listened for twenty or thirty seconds and set it aside. Unedited, no story attached, no hint of more to come. Odd.

  Wally took another sip of coffee and turned his attention to the digital edition of the New York Times. If anyone had mastered the shift from newsprint to screen, it was the NYT. And the Manchester Guardian. To his surprise, an image of Will Finch’s battered face filled the NYT homepage. The headline sent a shudder through his chest: “Senator Franklin Whitelaw Dead.” The sub heads provided no cause for comfort: “Reporter Arrested, Small-caliber Gun Seized. Fourth Tragedy Strikes Family of Political Star.”

  For a moment, he froze. How could this be? More important, what could he do to save Finch from pending catastrophe? He studied Finch’s picture again. The dazed reporter appeared almost unconscious as a cop led him toward the open door of a squad car. Good lord.

  His phone buzzed once, twice. Finally he snapped out of his paralysis. “Gimbel here,” he whispered, his voice barely stirring from his stupor.

  “Wally, it’s Lou Levine. I just got a call from Washington, D.C. Have you heard? Will Finch has been arrested.”

  “Yeah.” Wally drew a hand over his face with a sense of relief. At least the company lawyer had started to dig in. “Just reading about it now in the Times.”

  “Well, he’s in serious shit, my friend. The Feds are claiming he’s an assassin, for god’s sake!”

  “Bullshit.” Wally’s voice hardened. “I sent him there to interview the senator. Can you get a lawyer to him?”

  “Already on it. The firm has two criminal attorneys in D.C. But I’m going to need more than scout’s honor to get him out. Have you got anything? I need tangible proof he was there on legitimate business. And that’s just for starters.”

  “Just so happens I do.” Wally studied the audio file on his tablet. “Finch sent me a copy of his interview with the senator last night. It’s time-stamped at twelve-forty-two this morning.”

  “Fifteen minutes before the shooting. Forward it to me, Wally. I’ll send it to the team in D.C. Send me anything else you come across that can build a case for him. And I mean anything. By noon the lynch mobs will be on ground zero with this.”

  After Wally sent the audio file to Lou he noticed the text message icon flashing in the notifications bar on his phone. A new text from Finch. He opened the message. Stand Up 4 Justice: Will Finch has posted an urgent notice. Click this Dropbox link to download the video file related to this alert.

  Wally clicked on the video file. For the next five minutes he watched an erratic, jumping clip that could have been filmed by a monkey. When it reached the end, he watched again, then once more. After the third viewing Wally was able to make sense of the hectic scene as it unravelled. The first sequence revealed that Finch had carried the phone in his hand into a room with the senator. Next, an interval with the Senator bearing his soul in a monologue about his illness. Then he tugs a pistol from his pocket and shoves it into Finch’s hand. Suddenly the phone drops to the floor, and the video portion locks on the stippled ceiling. But the audio portion continues as more dialogue follows: the tragedy of the senator’s broken family and his accusations against Finch. The rant becomes increasingly muffled, almost indecipherable until it’s broken by the crisp bark of the pistol firing.

  Wally played the clip once more, listening for exculpatory evidence that might save Will. Then he heard it: Whitelaw begging Finch to shoot him. “Now pull the trigger. Please.”

  “Yes. That’s it,” he whispered aloud. Now pull the trigger. Please.

  ※

  The morning after her meeting with Fran Bransome, Eve sat at the bay window in her condo staring across Geary Street, gazing at the Ton Kiang Restaurant. She checked her phone again. Still no word from Will. No email, no texts. He’d promised to come home last night. “I’ll catch the red-eye,” he’d said. But now she sat alone, worried. Wondering.

  She recalled that first brunch with Will in the Ton Kiang, remembered his initial shyness as she escorted him across the street with the intention of seducing him. She’d been so hungry for him that day.

  Then they’d discovered the destruction left by Toby Squire’s bizarre invasion of her condo. He’d spared nothing. She shuddered. The creep still lay in a coma. Would he ever be revived? Better if he simply rots on a bed in that locked-down hospital room, she thought. The idea made her turn away from the window in disgust. Then she nodded in mute acknowledgement of her hunger for revenge. Embrace it. That’s who you are.

  She turned on the 24-hour TV news channel and sipped her coffee. After a moment she paused. There it was bright as day: Finch handcuffed, his arms clasped by two cops as he marched toward a squad car, a black eye blooming above his bandaged cheek. A series of running headlines scrolled below the video: “Senator Franklin Whitelaw shot to death this morning. Reporter Will Finch arrested at the scene. Fourth tragic death in California’s leading political family.”

  From a quarter-screen frame above the repeating video clip and news tracks, a reporter spoke into a field mic: “That’s right, Jerry. No one has yet confirmed that Will Finch, a reporter with the San Francisco eXpress who was arrested in the deceased senator’s Washington D.C. condo, is responsible for the senator’s death. As you know, Will Finch broke the news of Raymond Toeplitz’s murder in Oregon two months ago. Toeplitz was the Chief Financial Officer in the Senator’s firm, Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss. There is growing speculation that the death of Toeplitz and the murder just last month of the senator’s brother, Dean Whitelaw, may be related. This tragedy has been deepened with the recent loss of two of the senator’s five children. And now Franklin Whitelaw’s demise, occurring under apparently suspicious circumstances, has some commentators speculating that a conspiracy ties these crimes into a single, but very complex, story. Jerry, back to you.”

  “What?!” She screamed. “What happened?” She whirled back to the TV, clicked to CNN and watched Anderson Cooper confirm everything she’d just seen on the local channel.

  Her heart pounded an urgent rhythm: go, go, go. But where? She tried to think, tried to set each word on an invisible track in her mind. Go. To. Will. Yes, that was the only thing that made any sense in this madness.

  She grabbed her laptop, jacket, a change of clothes, toiletries and cosmetic bag and stuffed them all into a carry-on suitcase. She locked her condo door and
ran down the stairs to the street and hailed a cab parked at the corner.

  On the drive to SFO she booked a flight to Washington and then called Wally Gimbel at the eXpress. After five minutes waiting on hold, he picked up.

  “Gimbel here.”

  “Mr. Gimbel, this is Eve Noon.”

  In the following pause, she thought she heard a sigh of relief.

  “You don’t know me,” she continued, “but I know Will.”

  “Yes. He’s told me.”

  “I’m on my way to D.C. to get him.”

  “Uhh ... I don’t know if that’ll be helpful. Our lawyers are already working on this.”

  Eve narrowed her eyes and shifted the phone to her right ear. She expected Gimbel to try to block her and she was ready for it. “Mr. Gimbel, I’m in possession of the GIGcoin software and one of two keys that will activate it. I also have Raymond Toeplitz’s bitcoin wallet, the wallet that led to Gianna Whitelaw’s murder. Only Will and I can break this case open. But neither of us can do it alone.” She paused to glance at her watch. “Now, my flight leaves in thirty-four minutes. I’d like to have anything Will sent to you from his last interview with the senator.”

  Another pause. Eve could almost hear Wally’s thoughts ticking.

  “Eve ... Will’s interview with the senator is proprietary. If I gave you this material, he’d have my head.” He let out a mock laugh, a miserable guffaw they both knew was a sham.

  “And if you don’t give it to me, he might not have a head.” She took a long breath as she considered another approach. “Look. We can either be partners in this, or not. If we’re partners, I guarantee that you will have access to everything I hold related to the Whitelaws. I also guarantee that I’ll maintain complete confidentially with any eXpress materials, including everything pertaining to Will. You can send me a non-disclosure agreement and I will sign it. Immediately.”