She nodded to herself. She’d sue both defendants under the CFAA and add a claim against Asher Morgan for breach of his duty of loyalty, good faith and fair dealing during his employment. It wouldn’t be difficult to establish that he’d intentionally engaged in acts contrary to DoGiveThrive’s interests.
She pulled up a blank complaint template on her laptop and started typing. Her fingers flew over the keys. When she looked up, the sun was low in the sky and her coffee mug was empty. She spell-checked the draft, saved the document, and emailed it to Gella. Then she stood, stretched, and packed up her bag. Just before she turned out her office light, she scrolled through her cell phone notifications. No word from Connelly. But Hank had texted a picture of the twins and some of his kids putting on a puppet show.
She smiled down at the image and tried to ignore the growing pressure in her chest when she thought about Connelly.
This is stupid.
She pressed Connelly’s name in her contact list and stood, with one hand on the light switch, waiting for the call to connect. It rolled straight to voicemail. She ended the call without leaving a message, clicked off the light, and stepped out into the hall.
Her phone rang in her hand.
“Leo?”
“Sorry? Sasha, it’s me, Gella.”
She took a breath. “No, I’m sorry. I just called my husband and I thought you were him returning my call. You can’t have reviewed the complaint already, have you?”
“What? No. I have terrible news. Essiah Wheaton is dead.”
22
Leo rang Hank’s doorbell then yawned, a wide open-mouthed yawn he made no effort to cover. He was bone-tired. The flight from Houston had been delayed and then delayed again. By the time he landed in Pittsburgh and retrieved his car, the early edge of rush hour was underway. So he’d inched his way along the clogged roads until he finally reached Hank’s place.
He’d turned off his phone so that if Sasha tried to reach him, the call would go straight to voicemail. The coward’s way, maybe. But he preferred to think of it as the survivor’s way. The better course was to fight his way through snarled traffic, pick up the twins, grab takeout from her favorite Thai restaurant, and face the music in person.
Hank’s middle boy opened the door.
“Hi,” Mark said, before shouting over his shoulder into the interior of the house, “Dad, it’s not Mrs. Connelly. It’s Mr. Connelly.”
Hank appeared in the hallway, and his mouth fell open when he spotted Leo. He smoothed his expression in a heartbeat.
“Thanks, pal. Why don’t you help Finn and Fiona gather up their toys and pack their bag for me.”
He waited for the boy to walk away. Then he said, “You got here fast.”
Leo glanced down at his watch. “Not really.”
“Sure you did. I only got word about an hour ago that Wheaton had been neutralized.”
“Wait—what?”
“Someone working on Storm Chaser must be monitoring emergency and law enforcement communications. Ingrid called to say well done when the status on your assignment was updated to show that a coroner was dispatched to Essiah Wheaton’s home. He was dead at that scene.”
“Wheaton’s dead?” Leo repeated. The words sounded dull and far away to his own ears.
Hank frowned. “Well, yeah. That was the idea. Remember?”
Leo spoke slowly. “I didn’t kill him.”
Hank stepped out onto his porch and pulled the door shut behind him. He stared hard at Leo.
“What do you mean you didn’t kill him?”
“I mean I came straight here from the airport.”
“Your assignment was to take care of Wheaton.”
He locked eyes with his friend and boss. “I know. I came here to tell you to find somebody else to do it. But I guess you don’t need to now.”
They stared at one another for a long, tense moment.
Hank broke eye contact first when he passed his wide palm over his forehead. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“If you didn’t kill him, who did?”
“Probably whoever was crashing around in the woods last night. The question isn’t who, though. It’s why.”
“This is bad,” Hank muttered, more to himself than to Leo.
“So what now?”
“I have to ask—you really didn’t kill him?”
“No. Look, my flight was delayed. I spent the time on the tarmac fighting for elbow room and wrestling with my conscience. Essiah Wheaton may have been a no-good piece of trash. But I’m a federal agent, not his executioner, judge, and jury. That’s not how the system works—or, at least, that’s not how it should work. I tried to imagine sitting down for dinner across from Sasha or tucking Finn and Fiona in for the night with Essiah Wheaton’s blood on my hands and I couldn’t. So I came here to tell you that.” He exhaled.
He’d rehearsed his speech in his head during the interminable drive from the airport. It struck a weirdly hollow note now that the man he was refusing to kill was dead.
Hank shook his head. “Let’s keep this between us for now. As far as Ingrid and the boys at the NCTC are concerned, you completed your mission. But this could get real messy, real fast. You need to get up to Wheaton’s place and figure out what the hell is going on.”
He was right. His mea culpa to Sasha would have to wait. “You can keep the kids until Sasha finishes up at work?”
“Yes. She texted me that she’s on her way, though, so get out of here.”
Just then, the door opened. Mark had Leo’s hiking backpack in one hand and was being trailed by Finn and Fiona.
“Daddy!”
Oh, crap.
He crouched and swept them into a bear hug, one on each side of him. Then he planted a kiss on each of their faces.
“Hey, monkeys. I just stopped by real quick to say hi. Did you have fun with Uncle Hank and the kids today?”
“Oh, yes.”
“We played all day. No naps!”
They answered right over one another.
He managed a smile. “Great. I have to do a favor for Uncle Hank. Mommy’s on her way to get you. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” they chorused.
Hank coughed. “Maybe don’t tell your mom that Dad stopped by,” he suggested. “It can be your secret.”
“Right. Don’t tell Mommy you saw me. That way we can surprise her later,” Leo said.
“Oh, a secret,” Fiona said, clearly pleased by the idea.
“And a surprise!” Finn added.
“Great. Go on back inside until Mommy gets here.” Leo waved cheerfully until they disappeared back inside the house.
He straightened to standing.
“Go clean up your mess.” Hank’s voice was as grim as his face.
Leo nodded then turned and took the stairs down to the sidewalk two at a time. He needed to get out of there before his wife showed up. If he was quick about it, he could stop by the house to change his clothes and pick up some essentials and be out of there before she showed up with the twins.
23
Fletcher squeezed the phone between his ear and his neck and cracked his knuckles while he waited for Chuck to pick up. As he listened to the incessant ringing, he started with his left index finger, pulling on the digit until the knuckle joint gave a satisfying pop and then moving on to the next. He reached the middle finger of his right hand before Chuck finally answered the blasted phone.
“Sorry.” His head of security spoke in a low voice, just above a whisper.
“What’s going on? Did you handle our problem?”
“I did. It just took a little longer than we’d anticipated.”
Chuck sounded nervous. Fletcher didn’t like that, not one bit.
“How come?”
“Well, he was in for the night last night, obviously, so we found a motel just outside town. We figured we’d hit the hay and get up early today, set up on the road between his place an
d town and take a shot at him when he rode by on his motorcycle.”
Fletcher nodded to himself. It was a decent plan. Wheaton would be exposed, a soft target. And he’d likely lose control of his bike and crash. Hell, if they got lucky his fuel tank would explode, making the cleanup and forensics work problematic.
“But? He didn’t go in to town?”
“Oh, no. He did. But his wife or whoever she is was on the back of the bike. And you said—”
“I know what I said. I didn’t mean you should get all dainty about it. For Chrissake, Chuck, sometimes there’s collateral damage.”
“Yes, sir. But Marcus was insistent we not hurt her.”
He heard a trace of blame in Chuck’s voice. As if this were his fault for saddling Chuck with a greenhorn.
In fairness, it probably was. The rank and file of the Brotherhood were dependable men who embraced the ideals and stood firm for their heritage. But they weren’t stone-cold killers, no matter how the liberal media liked to paint them. No, his warrior soldiers, while fierce and merciless, were few. And Marcus sure as shooting wasn’t one of them.
But, he’d be damned if he’d concede the point to Chuck now, in the middle of an operation.
He waited in steely silence until Chuck went on.
After a pause, Chuck continued, “They were gone all dang day, so after lunch we went back to the house and took a closer look at the place.”
“How close of a look?”
“We let ourselves in.”
“For crying out loud—”
“Don’t worry. I talked Marcus through how to pick the lock. We wore gloves, and I didn’t touch anything. Nobody’s going to find my prints at the scene. And he’s not in the system.”
He unclenched his jaw. “Did you find anything?”
“No. Marcus did a search, real precise. He didn’t toss the place or anything. He did a good job, Fletch. The wife won’t find a thing out of place. While he looked for anything that might tie Wheaton to us, I kept a lookout. They have this big picture window, it takes up the whole front wall of their den. I watched the road through my binoculars. Right around three o’clock, I saw them coming back.”
“Tell me you got out of there.”
“Relax, already. We got out in plenty of time. We couldn’t go back to the car the way we came; we’d have had to walk right past them. So we looped around behind the garage out back. Wheaton pulled up to the house and let his gal off at the door then drove the motorcycle up to the garage. It’s more of a barn, really. So, he killed the engine and put down the kickstand. He had to pull the door up manually. That’s when I realized the barn was the best place to do it.”
“You killed him in his garage? Are you crazy? She had to hear the shot.”
“She might’ve. If I’d shot him. But I strangled him.”
“You strangled Essiah.”
“Right. I was still wearing the gloves. I slipped into the garage behind him while he was wheeling his bike inside. Then I killed him.”
“Did he get a look at your face?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. He’s deader than a coyote plastered across the highway.” Chuck’s voice was like whiskey, smooth and velvety.
He had a point. “Then what?”
“Then I dragged him out of the view of the doorway and shoved him under his workbench.”
“Why?”
“So she wouldn’t see his body from the kitchen window. The way I figured it, she’d glance out back, see the garage door raised and assume he was out there tinkering with his bike or something. It might take her a while to come looking for him. Makes time of death trickier if she doesn’t find him until dinner’s ready or what have you.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah. And good thing I pulled him over to the workbench.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Marcus came in to help me. Dead weight’s heavy, man.”
“Hence the name.”
“What?”
“Never mind. So Marcus came in.”
“And after we crammed Wheaton under the bench, Marcus cracked his noggin on the underside of the worktable.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“It’s a good thing he did. That snake Wheaton had taped an envelope under there. A big orange envelope that said ‘OPEN IN CASE OF MY DEATH’ across the front.”
“That dirty bastard.” Fletch’s heart was hammering. If Marcus hadn’t hit his head … he couldn’t even think about it. He caught his breath. But Marcus had hit his head. They had the envelope. They were safe.
“He’s dirtier than you think. It’s not in there.”
“Come again?”
“The proof he took. It’s not in there, Fletch. We opened it up and all that was in there was some sappy note to his girl, who isn’t Karen, by the way. Though she sure does favor her. But the note’s addressed to ‘My Darling Shelia Anne.’ Anyhow, here, let me read it to you:
My Darling Sheila Anne,
If you’re reading this, I’ve been killed by some very bad men.
But don’t worry. They won’t hurt you. If anything happens to you, I’ve made arrangements for information about them to go public. It’s a little post-life insurance policy.
I loved you every day and I’m missing you already. I’ll be waiting for you at the Gates of Heaven.
Yours eternally,
Essiah
And that’s all that was in the envelope.”
Fletch pounded his fist into the wall. He always thought ‘my blood was boiling’ was just an expression, but now he wasn’t so sure. He felt some internal fire spreading through his body, threatening to combust. That wily SOB had outsmarted him. He’d hidden evidence that could send Fletch, Chuck, and a whole mess of others to prison for the rest of their lives. And now, he’d gone and killed the man without so much as a clue as to where it was and how to find it and destroy it.
Think.
He was trying, but it was hard, what with the way his heart was racing and his pulse was pounding in his ears.
“Uh, Fletcher?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Right. I’m just wondering … I think Marcus and I need to make ourselves scarce, you know? Any reason we can’t hightail it out of town?”
“I said, I’m thinking. Stop your yammering for a minute.”
Chuck fell silent.
Fletch thought. Essiah Wheaton was nobody’s fool. If there was one envelope, there could be more, scattered around his property so his widow would be sure to find at least one. Nothing he could do about that.
And if he was telling the truth, somewhere, someone was sitting on information they planned to share with … the public? What did that mean? The authorities? The media? Could be anybody. Nothing much he could do about that without knowing who was supposed to pull the trigger on the release.
But surely the plan would only go into motion if this mystery person believed ‘very bad men’ had killed Wheaton. Fletch smiled. Now that he could do something about. And it would kill two birds with one stone.
“You got some pictures of that fed last night, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Go to an office supply store—not in town, someplace else—and print a handful of shots of him creeping around the property. Try and get it so the time and date stamp shows on the bottom. Take out that blasted note and stuff the pictures in that envelope of Wheaton’s.”
“How come?”
“His darlin’ Sheila Anne may know to look for an envelope somewhere if he dies. We’re gonna make sure she finds one and that it points to this federal agent as the killer.”
Fletcher heard the comprehension take hold as Chuck let out a low whistle. “That’s brilliant. She’ll think the feds killed her man, and this guy holding the dirt won’t release it because he’s only supposed to if we kill Wheaton.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“It could work.”
“It better.”
“Should we tape it back under the worktable, where we found it?”
“No. That’s gonna be an active crime scene. We want the woman to find it. Not the cops. Put it—I dunno—in the back of her freezer. She’s probably gonna be in and out the next couple days making funeral arrangements or what have you. You’ll have plenty of chances.”
He heard Marcus’s voice, urgent and fast, on the other end.
“What’s Marcus blabbering about?”
“He asked if I can handle this without him. He wants to go home.”
“Boo-freakin-hoo. No, he stays with you. And, Chuck?”
“Yeah?”
“If he becomes a problem …”
“I know.”
That was one of the things Fletcher liked about Chuck. He did know without having to be told every blasted thing.
“Good. And once that’s done, you two are gonna have to hole up there for at least a little while. If we can flush out Wheaton’s ally, that’s even better. We don’t need that threat hanging over our heads for all eternity. Even if this misdirection works, it’s a loose end.”
“I hear you. Wheaton didn’t work at the bank in town, but maybe he had a safe deposit box there or something. I’ll poke around after we take care of the envelope.”
“Good man. For the Brotherhood.”
“For the Brotherhood,” Chuck echoed.
24
Sasha only half-listened to Hank’s report of Finn and Fiona’s day. She smiled absently, shouldered the backpack, and thanked him for his help. The entire time, her brain was replaying her conversation with Gella.
Gella had tried again to reach Essiah Wheaton. A woman answered the phone. Gella said it was clear that she’d been crying. When Gella apologized for disturbing her, the woman broke down and explained her husband had been murdered in their backyard earlier in the evening. Gella had called on her seminary training to comfort the newly widowed Mrs. Wheaton. Something Gella’d said must’ve struck a chord with the woman, because she asked Gella to come see her. And, Gella, being Gella, had promised to drive out to Mars in the morning.
Intentional Acts Page 12
