“Annie, I don’t know what it means, but the coincidence is overwhelming. Do you have a name to go with the room?”
“Right here,” she proudly volunteered. “I’ve got everything printed out for you.”
Anne handed him a file with all of the pages. “Thank you, Anne. Thanks a lot,” he said on the run. When he got back to his desk he was going to track down this man who had 301 and why he left. He had a phone number in Connecticut and a name. Dolan.
Boston, Massachusetts
Roarke made the noon shuttle out of Logan. Getting through security with his gun was always a potential problem. He preferred to take care of these “unpleasantries,” as he called them, away from the crowds. Arriving at the terminal he identified himself to a uniformed guard who escorted him to a holding room. There he voluntarily turned over his Sig while the federal security guards checked and rechecked his Secret Service credentials.
Everyone on the president’s payroll remembered the 2002 case involving an armed Secret Service agent who was removed from a Maryland to Texas American Airlines flight. The pilot was concerned that the man posed a potential security risk, and he acted accordingly. In light of that, Roarke believed that rushing these people was not a good idea. The airport guards had been federalized for years, which simply meant they could fire first and ask questions later. And the captain of an airplane, like the captain of a ship, has complete responsibility for the safety of his passengers. According to security specialists with the Airline Pilots Association, when dealing with a perceived threat, the pilot has the authority to return a plane to the gate and have passengers removed.
Roarke preferred anonymity in public. He provided the security team with a number to call at the White House to confirm his credentials. While they were waiting for a response Roarke’s cell phone rang.
“Roarke here,” he answered. The news was not good and he automatically turned his back on the guards. A few moments later they heard his side of a testy conversation. “A heart attack? When? He didn’t get the message?”
They instantly knew he was real. The fact was confirmed by the fax coming in now. The senior of the two guards took it out of the machine, scanned it and gave the other a thumbs up just as Roarke sharply stated, “Have that trooper seal off the scene immediately. And, Shannon, get a team out there. Find out who can do a complete toxicology workup before some local funeral director shoots him full of anything. I’ll be back in town by ten.”
Roarke pocketed his phone. “Is everything okay?” he asked the guards.
“Is it okay with you, sir?”
“Not in the least.”
They returned his gun and identification and escorted Roarke to the gate. The lead guard whispered something to the ticket agent. She flagged him on the plane with a polite wave of her hand.
The one thing Roarke did request was the privilege of being seated first. He liked to study everyone who boarded. But today he was tired from his vigil the night before. The flight was delayed for thirty-five minutes because of air traffic patterns. Roarke used the time to rest.
When he opened his eyes again he was on the ground in Washington. The landing jolted him awake. Once permitted to use the cell phone, he dialed his friend at the FBI. But Davis had done him one better. He was waiting at the gate for Roarke.
“Well, this is service,” he said when he saw the FBI man. Davis, a blond version of Roarke, was rock solid. He projected a don’t mess with me attitude in his 6’2” frame. He looked tough, but sophisticated in his navy blue suit and designer sunglasses. Shannon Davis had served with Roarke in the Army Special Forces. They remained close friends and they helped each other in ways well beyond what the rules allowed.
“I figured you deserved a little TLC.”
“And I get you. Where did I go wrong?”
Roarke took Shannon’s right hand when they met and wrestled his neck with his left. The two friends exchanged small talk until they got in the FBI Towncar. The bureau driver had absolutely no problem keeping it waiting at the curb.
“Okay, here’s what I can tell you,” Davis began. “It does look like a heart attack.” Roarke was about to jump in, but Davis continued, “I know. I know. And we’ll get a full autopsy. But I’m telling you he had all the signs of a heart attack.”
“What about where he collapsed.”
“Sealed off like you asked. Jesus, Scott, the man was in his late seventies and he was out there alone in the woods. People do die of heart attacks.”
“Yeah, but one day he’s a critical link for me and the next day he’s dead.”
“A link to what, Scott? What are you into?”
“I can’t explain now.”
Davis paused. “You better be careful, buddy. You work for a high profile guy.”
Roarke nodded. The highest. But for how long?
They drove for another twelve minutes talking baseball to pass the time. Once inside the FBI building, they went up to Shannon Davis’ office.
Roarke asked him to get the Idaho State Trooper on the line. While the FBI man placed the call, Roarke phoned the White House. “Louise, I need to see the man today,” he said. Morgan Taylor’s secretary put him on the calendar for 5:50. “Ten minutes, Scott. No more. He’s scheduled for a dinner at six.”
Davis had his man on the phone by the time Roarke was finished talking to the president’s secretary. “His name is Duke Hormel. He’s cooperative,” he explained with his hand over the mouthpiece. “So for god’s sake, don’t piss him off.”
Roarke flashed Davis the finger and pleasantly said, “Hello officer Hormel, this is Scott Roarke. I’m with the Secret Service. Thanks for your willingness to assist.” He smiled to Davis as if to say, “Aren’t I being good?”
“Hello,” was all he got back from the Idaho trooper.
“Listen, I know you’ve gone over this before, but can you run through it again for me. Please,” he added for Shannon’s benefit.
“Secret Service? What’s this got to do with…”
“The vice president might be visiting the area. It’s routine, officer. But keep that to yourself, if you will.”
“Sure. Okay. Well, what happened is that we received a 911 call from a woman who said her husband hadn’t returned for dinner after a day fishing up river. It’s not the best country to be out in after dark, so we take these things pretty seriously.”
“I understand.”
“We get these calls fairly regularly and usually the person in question turns up a bit drunk. Too many beers.”
“This was different?” Roarke asked.
“Actually not, pretty routine. We got the general idea from his wife where Nunes was supposed to be and about 10 P.M. on the 20th we found him. He’d been dead about nine or ten hours. A heart attack. I guess it turned out to be a bad fishing day for him. Not even a bite on his line.”
“Any visible signs of distress on the body?”
“No, the coroner pretty quickly determined it was a heart attack.”
Roarke felt some attitude back, but he had to ask the next question. “Any signs of a puncture wound. Even a needle to his heart or under his armpit?”
Roarke could feel the officer getting mad. He heard a deep sigh over the phone.
“It was a heart attack.”
“Look, Trooper Hormel, I didn’t say it wasn’t a heart attack. But heart attacks can be induced. And as I explained, it’s my business to make sure your neck of the woods is safe for the VP.”
The Idaho officer lowered his voice. “Sir, we had the place cordoned off like Agent Davis requested. Now the body’s being held at St. Luke’s Wood River Medical Center.”
“Did his wife say Nunes had any history of heart problems?”
“No, I asked. Aside from asthma he was in pretty good health. No heart problems.”
“Come on, Trooper. No suspicions? Isn’t there anything that doesn’t strike you as right?” Roarke demanded. He was showing his anger. After all it took almost five days before t
he troopers notified the FBI that the heart attack victim was the man Roarke sought.
This time the young trooper didn’t jump right in. He weighed his answer for a few moments, then started, “Mr. Roarke, I’m usually running down fishermen who were supposed to catch and release, but didn’t. I write up a lot of drivers who smash into a deer and I’m always giving some teenage campers a good warning after finding them in possession of some grass. We have wolves, coyotes, and even a few bears to scare away from camp sites. I don’t have much to do with criminals. This is way over my head.”
The White House
“Hello, Mr. President.”
Morgan Taylor nearly spit out his sixth cup of coffee of the day. Roarke never referred to him as “President.” Ever. Usually “boss,” but never “Mr. President.” “Sorry, but such protocol, I’m just not used to it, Scott. Glad to see you.”
The president closed the door to the Oval Office and invited Roarke in. “I understand that you’ve been a busy, busy boy.”
“Oh?”
“Your stroll through the Boston Esplanade last evening. That was your handiwork?”
“Yes sir.”
Mulligan had obviously briefed the president in person. Nothing more needed to be said about it directly. Nothing more would ever be said.
“Louise told me you need to get to a dinner, so I’ll get right to it.”
The two men remained standing. The president stood behind the Jefferson chair.
“You sent me up to Lodge’s hometown to ask a few simple questions. Quietly. I don’t think it’s quiet any more. I’m getting a really bad feeling.”
“Which is?”
“Well, I don’t have enough to make any kind of professional assessment yet, but I want you to put in a good word for me with Mulligan. I need to talk to one of his people. Maybe that will give me something concrete.” He clutched the photograph, not certain if he should show it to the president yet.
“Okay, but you could have called that in. There’s something else. What is it?”
“I’ll share what my gut tells me.”
“Please do.”
“I think you’re being fucked over.”
CHAPTER
27
Hudson, New York
Monday 4 August
Carl Marelli typed up exactly what Anne Fornado told him and then dialed the number the man Dolan had left with the hotel.
“Hello. Hold on,” roared a woman who answered. Marelli heard clanging in the background and a cacophony of voices. “Yeah, what can I get you?”
“Dolan. I’m looking for a man named Dolan.”
He heard her yell into the room, “Hey, anyone here named Dolan? I got a guy on the phone.” When nobody responded, she came back. “Nope. No Dolan here. You want anything?” the woman asked again. “I’m in a hurry, bub, so let’s have it.”
“Excuse me, but where have I dialed?”
“Pizzalla. If you’re not going to order than so long.”
“Wait a second. Let me check the number again.” Marelli read it off to the woman.
“Yup. Right number. That doesn’t change who you got. This is Pizzalla.”
“Okay, I understand that, but…”
“Hold on a second,” she said. The call went on hold. Marelli presumed she took an order. A minute later she returned, just as gruff. “I’m back and like I said—”
“Look, I’m Chief of Police in Hudson, New York and I’m trying to find a man named Dolan. He’s not a customer. This was supposed to be his phone number.”
“I told you, there ain’t no Dolan here.”
“But this was the contact number he left.”
“And you’ve been snookered. You reached a pizza place in Stamford, and I’m damned busy. So with all due respect, so long.”
The woman hung up. She was right. They’d been snookered, which told him that this Dolan was definitely part of a team. He added the information to his report. Then decided to check the computer for Dolan name matches.
Marelli logged onto NYSPIN, the New York Statewide Police Information Network. The system, maintained by the New York State Police, communicates messages internally among police departments and other law enforcement agencies and provides users direct access to NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. Police can share information, add comment or updates, and link to systems in other states through cooperative agreements.
Four names came up on the NYSPIN police web. One in Buffalo, a spousal abuse matter. The second a DWI from Gilderland. The third match was a car theft in Syracuse. The fourth caught Marelli broadside. It was filed by the Manhattan Police with a cross-reference to another police department—in Stamford, Connecticut.
Dolan, Frank. Wanted possible suspect. Homicide.
The description that followed matched Anne Fornado’s ID. The contact was an NYPD detective named Coates.
Carl Marelli made his second call. This one counted.
“Coates. Homicide.”
“Detective, My name is Marelli, I head up the police department in Hudson, New York.”
Hudson was very much on the map these days and Harry Coates immediately gripped the phone headset harder.
“We need to talk about a man named Dolan.”
“Say that again,” Coates asked. He rolled his chair forward to get closer to his desk and write.
“This is Carl Marelli, I’m…”
“I got that part. But it’s about?”
Marelli spoke slowly. “Dolan. A man named Dolan. Frank Dolan.”
“You have my undivided attention, Chief Marelli,” Coates proclaimed.
Marelli told his story and then listened to Coates as he explained about the death of Steven Hoag.
“So, we both have a guy named Frank Dolan,” Marelli added. “Their descriptions match pretty well. And they were both around murders. What’s the chance that there is just one Dolan.”
“I’d say about 100 percent. Send me your report. I’ll get you what I have. And let’s stay on this, Chief.”
“I have to talk to my contact at the Bureau. Then I’ll fax you,” Marelli said.
“I don’t know where this is going to lead, but I have to tell you, it’s the best news I’ve had in awhile.”
Marelli was actually feeling excited. So was Coates. If Dolan was also involved in the assassination attempt on Lodge, then it raised even more questions about the phone line that had been disconnected. The New York cop thought for a moment. The possibilities were unnerving. For now, he didn’t even want to go there.
The people silently listening on the line, recording the exchange looked at one another. This was an interesting development to them, too. Their boss would have to hear about it. Before they were off the line, Evans had been notified.
It was the constant eating that President Taylor hated the most about the job. At least four nights a week he hosted a dinner at the White House, spoke at an embassy function or traveled to one dais or another halfway across the country. And all the food was bland. Where were the spices he discovered on duty in Asia? Or the delicious meals in the Caribbean ports? Unless he was visiting Los Angeles and Wolfgang Puck catered the meal it was all fairly uninspired.
Rather than eating, the president moved the food around on his plate: From left to right, up and down and sometimes creating food artwork in patterns. An aide confided that his predecessors had basically done the same thing.
By Taylor’s count he had to endure another seventy-eight dinners before leaving the White House.
Teddy Lodge led by twenty-three points now. He’d get another boost at the Democratic primary. Then, Taylor would enjoy a predictable bump following the Republican primary. Maybe they’d be 50-50 for awhile. But by Labor Day, Lodge would move ahead again. The President needed to deliver a command performance in the debates to achieve any advantage. That is unless he really wanted to call it quits after another seventy-eight state dinners. Funny how the most important job in the world came down to limp vegetables
and dry chicken breasts, the staples of the “rubber chicken” circuit.
While Morgan Taylor chatted with a Brazilian ambassador, he noticed that the Secret Service agent closest to him cupped an ear to block the room noise. A communication was coming in. He nodded, tapped “Top Gun,” the handle the Secret Service gave to Morgan Taylor.
“Gotta go, Mr. President.”
“No argument from me,” the President said through a relieved smile. “What is it?”
“The Chief needs to speak with you. Pronto.” The reference was to the president’s chief of staff.
Twenty minutes later Morgan Taylor was back at the White House. John Bernstein was waiting for him in the Oval Office.
“What’s up, Bernsie?”
“Jack Evans is on his way. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes. There’s been a development.”
“More,” Taylor asked not understanding.
“The Lodge shooting.”
This was just the kind of news that made Taylor realize he could put up with another thousand bad presidential meals.
The White House
“Sit down everyone,” the president commanded. “Give it to me straight, Jack?” The President of the United States lit up a Partagas against all Federal smoking regulations in the building. “Straight.”
“Pieces right now. But enough to paint a disturbing picture.”
“As I’m sure you’ve heard, I’m all ears.”
The CIA head and the president’s chief of staff laughed. They were very familiar with the cartoon caricatures of the president, which overly emphasized his ears.
“It’s about McAlister, the man who shot at Congressman Lodge.”
“Shouldn’t Bob Mulligan be in on this?” the president asked.
“Oh, I think he’ll be here all on his own very soon. He’s got much of the same information.”
“What is it?”
“We think that McAlister may know the man who took out Steven Hoag on the way to New York.”
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