by David Bishop
“I want to be Millet’s friend,” Nora said, “so that’s how I’ll play it. But if he hits on me, I’ll have to shut him down.”
Rachel stacked her empty dinner plate on top of Nora’s and pushed them to the side. “When did you decide to be a cop?”
“I was around ten,” Nora told her. “My mother had died and my dad and I went to live with his father, a retired beat cop. Grandpa loved that old black-and-white TV series Superman and I’d sit and watch them with him. I don’t know if you remember, but Superman would open the show standing with his fists on his hips while some badass’s bullets bounced off his chest. Then the baddie would throw the empty gun and Superman would duck.” She grinned. “I asked Grandpa why Superman needed to duck the gun when the bullets just bounced off him, my Grandpa laughed, turned to my dad and said, ‘We got ourselves a third generation cop and dontchuknow, this one’ll be a detective.’” Nora grinned at the memory.
“And with that a career was born,” Rachel said. They both grinned.
A waiter came to the table, held up their empty pitcher and raised his eyebrows. Nora shook her head and made the universal gesture for their check.
“You can tell me it’s none of my business if you want, but from the way you look at Jack McCall when he’s not looking at you, I figure you two have some history.”
“Well, Ms. Burke, looks like your grandpa was right. You are a detective.”
“Hey, you said you liked having another woman on the team. So answer the question, Ms. Johnstone.”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I admit I once had the hots for him, but, well, he didn’t feel the same way. I guess.”
“The man must be gay.”
“He’s not gay, definitely not gay. I’ve got a friend in the diplomatic corps and she told me that Jack, what should I say, has had flings with a lot of women in this town. Plus the man’s—a damn neat freak.”
“He does keep his desk orderly.”
“Orderly! You should see his house.”
Nora nibbled on her last french fry. “Rachel, the man’s organized at work so of course is at home. If you’re trying to put him out of your mind, you’ll need something more than, he’s neat.”
Rachel ran the tip of her finger around the ridge at the top of her glass. “So, anyway, that’s my story on America’s super spook. Now enough about me.” She raised her glass and drained it. “What about you? Who’s in your love life?”
“I just ended a long thing with an assistant D.A.,” Nora told her. “So, I’m between lovers, for lack of a better phrase.”
“No prospects?”
“I did meet someone just the other night,” Nora said. “In the supermarket of all places, but who knows when we’ll hook up again. I’m going to be busy working with all of you, and I got the impression his work would be keeping him busy for a while too.”
CHAPTER 17
The president’s press secretary confirms Schroeder gets regular briefings from McCall, but beyond that it’s, “No further comment at this time.”
—Mel Carsten, D.C. Talk, June 9
Sergeant Hector Mendoza from the Lincoln County, Oregon, Sheriff’s office stood in the doorway of the Depoe Bay’s honeymoon cottage alongside one of his deputies. Mr. Pritcher, the general manager of the resort stood behind them.
The sergeant instructed his deputy to tape off the cottage and the walkway leading to it from the parking lot, including the cottage’s small private patio and the grounds around the patio. Pritcher, a frail man in his late sixties, leaned against a post near the door. “Nothing like this has ever happened,” he said his voice quivering. “No one has ever been killed—murdered in our resort.”
“Don’t touch anything, Mr. Pritcher,” the sergeant said after the manager stepped through the door. “Please wait outside.”
The manager went out and put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a long puff. He spoke with smoke leaking around his words. “We have guests arriving to stay in this honeymoon cottage. They’ll be here in about two hours. We don’t have another cottage for newlyweds.” He coughed, then lit another cigarette from the embers of the one he had lit only moments before.
Mendoza turned to Pritcher. “Who were the guests?”
“I checked before you arrived, Sergeant. A Ms. Ashcroft reserved the cottage using her credit card. We imprinted it when they checked-in. They registered as Ms. Ashcroft and friend. No first names. That’s unusual for the honeymoon cottage, but it happens. Not everyone who reserves it is married. You should speak with Peggy Fallow in reservations. She and Ms. Conners, the concierge, handle the newlyweds.”
Sergeant Mendoza left the resort three hours after arriving. He had spoken with the maids, Peggy Fallow, Ms. Conners, the bellman who took the Breens to their rooms, and the restaurant staff. The Breens had arrived in a cab, eaten no meals in the restaurant or from room service, and had not been seen by anyone since the bellman took them to the honeymoon cottage.
The Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office would retain the lead on the investigation because the crime had first been reported to the sheriff’s office. Standard procedure for that area of Oregon called for such crimes to be handled by a cooperative task force made up of the sheriff’s office, the Lincoln County District Attorney, the Oregon State Police, and the police departments of several small area cities in what they called their coordinated Major Crime Team.
By seven that evening, Sergeant Mendoza completed his police report:
Ms. Ashcroft and her friend were killed some time between the late afternoon of June 7, the day of their arrival, and 2:00 p.m., June 9, the time when the maids found their bodies. I estimate the approximate time of death, subject to the coroner’s findings, as between 5:00 p.m. and midnight, June 7 based on their not being seen by the resort staff, their ordering no meals, and on the conditions of their bodies: The deep-purple blood settled to the lowest parts of their bodies did not shift when I changed their positions. No blanching occurred when I pressed my finger against the discolored skin. Both bodies were cool to the touch and flaccid except for the largest muscle groups.
The only other homicide Sergeant Mendoza worked had not included much time between the death and the discovery of the body. His estimate had come more from the textbook than from field experience.
He signed his report, turned it in, and went off duty.
The newlyweds’ desire for anonymity was still holding.
CHAPTER 18
No word of progress from Jack McCall.
The nation holds its breath.
—The Evening News Hour, June 10
Jack ended his day standing in the shower, the hot water pounding a hard scar on his hip, a souvenir from a firefight during a pre-Gulf War incursion, when his cell phone rang. He stepped out and picked up.
“It’s Rachel, Jack.”
“Oh, hi. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to tell you I thought the group dinner was a good idea. The squad seems to be coming together.”
“Are you feeling any better about the members?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry for being a jerk about all that. It’s just, well—”
“No sweat. I had expected you to be critical. If you hadn’t come around, I would’ve taken another look at who we had. You have any new ideas? Any time you do, I wanna know it.”
“Okay, but I don’t now. Just wanted to say goodnight.”
“I’m glad everyone enjoyed tonight. I don’t know how many more quiet evenings we’ll be getting.”
“As soon as we hang up, I’m going to pour a glass of wine, take a hot shower and shave my legs. What about you?”
“I’ve had the drink and the shower. As for the legs, I’ll keep ’em hairy.”
By ten thirty Jack was in bed, his head filled with thoughts and images of Rachel. Today she had taken the edge off her attitude. He was pleased because she was a capable agent and maybe more.
Four hours later his phone rang again. It was his boss, CIA
Director Harriet Miller, telling him she had been awakened ten minutes ago by Fred Hampton. The Cleveland Police had called the FBI.
“Whomever you’re hunting just blew up the home of Cleveland Federal Reserve Governor Charles Taylor,” she said. “His wife and mother died with him.”
“Set up to look like another accident?” Jack rubbed his eyes.
“Not this time. Plastic explosive. They knew we weren’t about to buy a fourth coincidence.”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the cobwebs sleep had spun in his mind.
“Director Hampton has dispatched his closest ERT,” she went on. “We should have some kind of report by ten. I told Fred you would meet with his squad leader when he returns from Cleveland. That’s all we know now. Pleasant dreams.”
Jack yawned. “I’ll see ya in a few hours.”
He had set his alarm for six and drifted off again only to be awakened by another call from Harriet. “There’s been another killing,” she said.
“You’ve already called me.”
“No. They struck again.”
Jack rolled out of bed. “Who? Where?”
“Supreme Court Justice Breen and his bride were found shot to death in a honeymoon cottage in Oregon. The locals just identified the victims. Fred has dispatched his ERT from Portland. We should have their report sometime mid-afternoon.”
Jack strode into the bathroom and while holding the phone, used his other hand to splash cold water on his face. “Tell Director Hampton I want the leader he sent to Cleveland to meet with my entire team in our ops center. I want them to hear what he has to say. I’m going to try to see the president around four. Ask Hampton to have the Oregon report sent over one of your secure lines and have your people bring us seven copies.”
After showering and shaving Jack called the others. He asked Rachel, Millet, and Colin to be at the Bullpen no later than eight thirty. But he told Frank and Nora, not before nine.
Colin and Millet had already taken seats when Jack arrived and grabbed a cup of coffee and a carrot muffin. Rachel stood at their pin board removing the pictures of Justice Breen and Fed Governor Taylor from the bulletin section and repositioning them in the graveyard section.
Jack started talking while Rachel finished. “Our first order of business: do we keep Frank and Nora or send them back to Metro PD?”
“Keep them,” Rachel said without hesitation. “They don’t have the locals versus the feds chip on their shoulder. They think well and they fit in.”
“Anybody disagree?”
“I like Nora,” Millet said from the beverage area where he had just emptied a little packet of chocolate powder into a cup of hot water. “Frank’s okay, too.”
“Colin?”
“They should stay.”
“I agree,” said Jack. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. Rex Smith, the agent in charge at the scene in Cleveland will be here after a bit.”
Rachel turned toward Jack. “I know Rex. He’s a good agent. Who’d the FBI send to the Oregon coast?”
“Lillian Beecher from their Portland field office; she went over with their ERT. We should have those reports later today. Every American will now know none of these deaths were accidents. The stock market will get skittish or worse. Sam Schroeder’s opponents will turn up the heat. And we’ll begin earning our pay. Let’s break until Nora and Frank arrive. I’ve got to set an appointment to see the president.”
“So our perps are out in the open,” Nora said as she came through the door wearing taupe slacks, a white blouse with a cowl neckline, and two bangle bracelets. Her lipstick looked like she had put it on in the car. She took a chair next to Rachel who had just finished updating their bulletin boards.
“Looks that way.” Jack leaned back in one of their new swivel-and-tilt leather chairs and clasped his hands behind his head. “All these cases are now officially federal.” He turned to Frank who had come in right after Nora. “You and Nora can stop faking working for Metro. You’re on this squad, unless you want off. All I’ll promise is long hours and lots of stress. And, I would guess, a loss of the overtime pay you’ve been getting from Metro.”
“Wow, Jack,” Nora said, “you certainly know how to charm a lady.”
“Can we have a minute?” Frank asked. “We’d like to give you one answer.”
“Go out into the hall,” Jack said, knowing that he would release them back to their local police work if they showed any signs of struggling with the decision to stay. The journey they were all starting would be tough enough even with total commitment.
Almost as soon as the door closed, it reopened. “We’re in,” Frank said. “Thanks for asking. We don’t like stopping short of the goal line.”
Three hours later, Jack met FBI Special Agent Rex Smith at the Bullpen door. Rex was an average-sized man on the shy side of forty-five. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. His chestnut hair hinted it would have curls if allowed to live longer between cuts. His body announced that he ran and pumped iron.
Jack pointed. “Coffee’s on the side table along with some snacks.”
“Thanks. I haven’t eaten since,” Rex looked at his watch, “dinner last night.” Rex put an ice cube in the bottom of a cup and filled it with steaming coffee, then piled some fruit on a plastic plate and added a large croissant. Millet had used the pause to pour himself a glass of cranberry juice as a chaser to his hot chocolate.
Rex walked around the table dropping a file in front of each of them. When he paused next to Rachel, leaned in, and handed her a copy, she glanced up. Their eyes met and they shared an easy smile. Jack felt a little annoyed, which he knew was absurd. She was only being polite. Friendly. And besides, he had no claim on her.
“These folders,” Rex began, “contain my report, the ERT’s prelim, and a copy of the report from the local Cleveland detective first on the scene. The neighbors were all reading, watching television, or sleeping. The Taylor house is dust. So are the three inhabitants: Fed Governor Charles Taylor, his wife, Susan Taylor, and his mother, Lucille Taylor. The killer used plastic explosive.”
“Anyone else hurt?” Jack asked.
“The houses there are well spaced,” Rex replied. “The neighbors got a little collateral damage but no injuries. The explosion occurred under Taylor’s house. The FBI will try to trace the explosives unless you want your squad to handle that.”
“We’d appreciate the bureau doing that,” Jack replied, before glancing around the table. “Any questions for Rex?”
Frank leaned forward so he could look past Millet to see Rex. “What’s not in your report? Your instincts?”
“It felt like a killing by someone from out of town. I can summarize all this paperwork in a few short sentences: Plastic explosive. House gone. Inhabitants dead. No leads. The end.”
Jack had been in harm’s way more times than he could count, and here he sat listening to a report on the death of a governor in the Federal Reserve Bank who lived an important but relatively safe life, only to be murdered in his own bed in a comfortable American neighborhood. On some level, that alone seemed a bit screwy.
Millet gestured with enough animation to slosh some of his cranberry juice on the table. “Do the rest of you agree we can now quit chasing the families and coworkers?” He swiped at the spill and wiped his wet, red hand on his shirt.
“Millet,” Nora said in a deliberate voice, “we all agreed with you from the start. But until something more happened we had only what we had.”
Rachel raised her hands and then let them drop onto the table in a gesture of helplessness. “Our killers could be anybody in the frigging world.”
“So we’ll start with what we’ve got,” Jack said with his hands spread. “Millet, cross-check the hate and threat letters received by the Fed and the Court. See if any of those names match any names on the list of terrorists Rachel got from the agencies.”
“Done it early this mornin’. If you’re goin
g to keep up, Jackman, you gotta think faster than that.”
“And?”
“No matches.”
Jack heard a sharp noise from near the door. He looked up, his hand instinctively going toward the butt of his Sig Sauer, as Director Miller stormed in. Harriet’s brown hair was pulled back so tightly that, from a distance, it appeared no more than a smear on her scalp. She was waving a piece of paper.
“This is a hard copy of a communiqué just broadcast by the ABC-TV affiliate in Phoenix, Arizona,” she announced loudly. “It arrived in a FedEx package posted in Redding, California. The package contained a CD-ROM from a group calling itself the American Militia to Restore Representative Government. They’re claiming responsibility for all the killings. The communiqué is signed by a Commander LW.”
Jack dropped his croissant. “Get somebody out to that station—”
“Already done,” Director Miller said, punctuating her words with the eyeglasses she held in her other hand. “The FBI’s Phoenix office is fingerprinting and taking DNA samples from everyone at the station who has handled the package or CD. A military jet from Luke Air Force Base, just outside Phoenix, will get the CD to our lab ASAP. No doubt the package got contaminated before anyone knew its contents. Our linguists are already working it over and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit will take a shot at profiling the person who wrote it.”
“Excellent.” Jack wiped his hand across his mouth. “Ask General Crook to also have his geniuses at defense intel take a run at it. His people are really good at detecting which country a writer is from or what other languages the writer might speak. Have the NSA do it, too. This is supposed to be a multi agency effort, so let’s act like it.”
When Director Miller left, Jack and his team circled the communiqué as if it were an enemy encampment.
