Donovan figured they had the length of time of an elevator ride, because the man would not stop, since he wouldn’t drink the coffee here. “Marina?”
“Yeah, I get it.” She was gathering her things. “Your SAC called and I need to get out of here for your meeting.”
At least he didn’t detect any bitterness in her voice. Then again, if it were there, would he? He could hear so much, but unlike Eleri, he’d never listened. Not to people. He’d had no desire to understand them or get closer or be anything other than a voice of reason from beyond the grave. He found himself now looking at his special talents and realizing he was still at a distinct disadvantage.
“We’d keep you. It’s a Westerfield thing.” Eleri lied convincingly, with a shrug and a half smile as though ‘what could you do?’
Marina nodded, still stacking reports, tablets and more. Then she shocked them. “I don’t know your SAC from anywhere before. I thought I was keeping better track than that.” She looked at them expectantly.
Eleri kept her cool. “Hmm. He’s been with the Bureau quite a while.”
That was all she said, and she left Marina Vasquez probably on her way to investigate the mysterious boss of her team members, and Donovan wondering just what—if anything—she might find. It was possible Westerfield’s entire record was redacted.
Even though she was halfway out the door, Marina Vasquez wasn’t done with them. “I’m going to see if I can dig up anything indicating when or how Cooper Rollins might have sent that phone with the pictures.”
Donovan smelled Westerfield before he saw him, and heard him just at the same time Vasquez did.
“That’s a dangerous assumption—that Cooper Rollins sent that phone. We don’t yet have any evidence that he did, do we?” With the last two words, Westerfield turned his attention from chastising the new girl to looking expectantly at Donovan and Eleri.
As Donovan opened his mouth to say no, there was no new evidence, Marina straightened. Though she was behind Westerfield, she spoke solidly and without hesitation. Odd, since she often looked to the two of them for lead. Maybe she just didn’t like his insinuation.
“No sir, we don’t. That’s why I’m on a positive/negative search. If it’s not possible that Cooper Rollins sent the phone, then we can start looking other places.” Her gaze was steady as she stood up to an agent clearly her superior. “Right now, we need anything we can get, and we have nowhere else to look.”
She waited a beat, her eye steady on Westerfield’s, not defiant, but standing her ground. She was afraid—the light but sharp smell coming from her Donovan’s only cue, but one he believed.
“Good point.” It was all Westerfield said before offering her half a nod of dismissal and turning into the room.
Behind his back, Donovan caught Eleri giving Vasquez a thumbs-up signal, then he followed the two of them somberly back to the seats. He was far too uncomfortable to make this report. So far they had managed to tie everything in the past together relatively neatly. Eleri had fleshed out who had killed whom. They had eyes on Rollins, they knew the Indian faction existed, even if they didn’t know where. Now their job was to use that information to predict the future, and on that front, they had exactly jack shit.
Westerfield closed the door on Eleri and Vasquez’ exchange, appearing not to see it. But Donovan didn’t put anything past the man. Eleri might give hand signals behind their boss’s back, but Donovan didn’t think that was necessarily off his radar and Donovan wasn’t about to do it himself.
As per usual, Westerfield seated himself and began asking questions before either of them was fully settled. Donovan hadn’t yet figured out if this was a good thing or not. Sometimes the man waited; it seemed to mean the news was bigger, but not necessarily better.
“Cooper made you?” He looked at Donovan.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he see your faces?”
Donovan hadn’t seen that coming. He’d just assumed Cooper had. He’d called them after all. Though they’d given him the number, in case there was anything he’d wanted to share—despite the one time he’d sat down to speak with them and repeatedly said there wasn’t. “I have to assume so. He called me. I supposed it’s possible that he called three other people who might have been surveilling him and said the same thing. I didn’t actually admit that I was doing it. However, he has spoken to me before and operating under any lesser assumption is probably foolhardy.”
With effort, Donovan made himself shut up. Time to stop talking about what an idiot he’d been.
“Has he seen the wolf?”
Both of them shook their heads and Donovan wondered if Eleri was sticking up for him or just trying to get into the conversation.
Westerfield breathed in and out, not slowly, but audibly. This time he looked at both of them. “Have you had any more run-ins with the local lobomau?”
Donovan tried to hide his shock at the use of the term he’d only ever heard from Wade. Then again, Wade de Gottardi and Westerfield went way back themselves, and apparently Donovan was pretty late to his own game. He shook his head.
“Then you’ll go back in that way if it comes up?” Westerfield looked between them, and it seemed they weren’t answering fast enough. “Sounds like Eames here shut them down. I don’t think they’ll give you more trouble.”
That seemed to be enough for Westerfield. They’d been attacked, they’d made it out, therefore all was well. Eleri had written up the incident, and Donovan signed off on it, though they both agreed there was a certain element to it that left a sour taste, they had reported only the facts and had to do so. What was missing was how Eleri won.
The report said she’d drawn her gun, that she’d placed it under the chin of the lead female. While that did somewhat coincide with the wolves backing off, Donovan was very certain that wasn’t the actual cause. He’d seen Eleri’s eyes. And they still hadn’t discussed it because she’d redirected the conversation with her insight of the words “Fracture Five.”
Westerfield must have ducked his hand into his pocket, because a quarter now walked across his knuckles. It roamed, flipping slowly and very controlled from one end of his hand to the other. Donovan was never sure if it was just a habit, or if it was intended as a warning.
“Who are you following?”
That was the big question. Eleri clicked on her tablet as though she needed to be reminded of the names. “Cooper Rollins still—through his phone tracker. Though we aren’t sure he doesn’t know about it. Also via Walter.”
“Walter? I don’t recall that name on the reports.” Westerfield looked confused for the first time. Usually he just made them tell him things he already knew from their reports.
Donovan fielded this one. Give Eleri some time to think, if she needed it. “Lucy Fisher. The PI. Her nickname in the square—where the vets are, and where Cooper Rollins sometimes hangs out—is Walter Reed.”
Westerfield blinked. Normally. That was probably the only acknowledgment Donovan was going to get.
Eleri picked up the slack, even though he could see she was getting a bit stressed. She wasn’t even supposed to be back in town from her parents’ party yet. Donovan was betting she was supremely grateful she’d come back early.
“We’re following the cell in Calabasas. Checking names. We’re running down the son of Warner Salling. Salling and his wife own the house where the meeting was held. His daughter was attending, the son was not. We’re trying to find Jacob Salling and determine if he’s a detached part of the group, no help at all, or if he has any insights into his parents.”
“What about the Indian man?” The quarter kept walking.
“Nothing.” Donovan reported, pissed that he’d been forced to say it.
“But what kind of nothing?” Though Westerfield’s eyes turned to him and bored in, Donovan knew what he was being asked.
“We checked the pamphlet. No church exists with that name. The website has only the one page despite the menu at the top.
” Donovan took a deep breath and kept going. There was a lot of nothing there. “The physical address listed on the pamphlet is phantom.”
There was “non-existent address” which could mean anything from 441 wasn’t a viable house number—there was a 437 and a 443 but no 441. To the street ended with home number 350—didn’t have any block on the 4s. Or even that the home address led to a non-home, something like a factory, school, business complex, or some other non-residential type building. This one was category: phantom.
There was nothing. No street that matched the name, though it sounded like it could exist. In L.A.it was probably harder to make up a street name that didn’t actually exist. You’d be more likely to discover there was a “Morgan Street” in Calabasas and a “Witson” in Culver City. This one didn’t exist at all. The zip code started with 913. That was LA, but once again, they’d managed to get one that wasn’t real.
The problem was “non-existent” was helpful. People tended to build fictions from things or places they knew. You just had to figure out why your perp was listing X office building as his home address and you could maybe find him. “Phantom” led nowhere.
Donovan picked up the thread with more bad news. “There’s nothing to tie the printing of the pamphlet to anything unusual. We can’t find a print shop that remembers printing it. We ran a few partial fingerprints but got nothing useful, there were no fulls.”
“Paper can be a bitch to recover from, too.” It was probably the best encouragement they were going to get from Westerfield today.
“The only thing we do have,” Eleri picked up, seemingly as pissed off about the nothing as he was, “is the phrasing.”
Westerfield waited.
“The phrase, ‘the best of the sons of men’ has been linked back to India and the belief that Jesus spent his middle years there. Ages twelve to thirty.” When Westerfield paused again, she filled the void with more words. “They believe in and revere Saint Issa—believed to be Jesus, traveling through India.”
“Jesus, huh?” For the first time Westerfield looked like he was absorbing information rather than just cataloging it and judging them.
Nodding, Donovan picked up the thread. “Many Hindus, Muslims, and even some Buddhists refer to Jesus as ‘Saint Issa.’ In some sects of those religions it’s simply accepted as scripture. That’s where Jesus was and how it went.”
“So we have three deeply religious sects?”
Donovan sighed, having learned not to answer before he was certain. He could see Eleri doing the same, but she let him field the question. “We have two seemingly deeply religious sects—the Christian group in Calabasas and the Muslims in the downtown area. The Indian man was in the Huntington Beach area, and the quote makes him seem like part of a deeply religious group, but we don’t have the evidence to back that statement up yet.”
For just an instant Eleri looked put out. Then the words out of her mouth confirmed it. “Can we not be assigned to religious nut-jobs next time? Are we the ‘Crimes committed in the name of God’ unit?”
Well, well, she’d managed to startle Westerfield. Then he laughed. “No, you are not the ‘Crimes committed in the name of God’ unit. It’s strictly coincidence. But extremists are your criminals. ‘Extreme anything’ is often criminal related.”
That was all Westerfield said, but Donovan started tying in his FBI Academy training, finding a lot of it matched. Extreme wealth was often gathered criminally or at least through unethical loopholes. There weren’t that many incredibly wealthy people who were completely ethical. Extreme poverty often caused criminal activity. Extreme religion led to extreme actions . . . He could keep going.
Eleri seemed to accept that, even though their boss hadn’t said they wouldn’t get assigned to the same kind of thing next time. “Because I believe in things, and I’m personally offended that these nut jobs do this in the name of an otherwise peaceful religion. How do they all link?”
Westerfield knew this. Donovan wanted to frown. Was this his version of brainstorming? As though if they all sat down and recapped it they might see a new connection? He wasn’t presenting it that way. He was still lording the “In Charge” part of “Special Agent in Charge” over them.
Ultimately, Donovan knew his role. Though this boss was more overbearing than the administrator at the medical examiner’s office, Westerfield was around a damn lot less. Thankful for that, Donovan answered the question. “Right now, the link is the term ‘Fracture Five’ and the fact that Eleri can connect each group to a specific murder with an identical MO.”
She didn’t wait for him to think of the next one. “And the murders’ all link back to Cooper Rollins.”
“And the military.” Donovan finished. He didn’t know what to make of Rollins’ yet. He could be the mastermind or an entry level anti-American soldier or just a guy with PTSD and bad taste in friends.
Okay, he was in way too deep to be the last one, but he was hard to place. Donovan said so.
“I don’t know.” Eleri replied. “He’s intricately linked to each of the four victims.”
“How is he linked to Mrs. Sullivan? I know she had a military connection, but what specifically?” Westerfield watched the quarter.
Had they not included that in the reports? Donovan almost rocked back. No, Marina had brought them the information, just a few days ago . . . Yesterday? Holy shit, he couldn’t even tell anymore. “Her husband was Ken Kellen’s superior officer. And she was a secretary on base during her husband’s appointment. She retained the job even after he died, having cleared her own security checks. She left the job suddenly, and it was rumored that she’d gone whistleblowing on something.”
“So she’s linked to Kellen, not Rollins?” Their boss squinted and the quarter stopped. Now he looked from one to the other.
Shaking her head, Eleri filled him in. “We found indications that Rollins may have visited the Sullivans. She sent both of them . . . Not care packages per se, but stuff through military channels. It seemed to start when Kellen joined the Green Berets. Before Rollins met and married Alyssa, before Mr. Sullivan died.”
“So she went to the secretarial job after the army?”
Eleri nodded.
Now Westerfield was leaning over the table, his elbows splayed, the quarter finally disappearing into his pocket. “So all the murdered have ties to what we have to assume are the missing munitions. Which ties them to both Rollins and Kellen.”
Eleri shook her head. “Just Rollins. Dr. Walton Gardiner has no ties to Kellen. . .Well, that we know of.”
She looked to Donovan. “He did work with vets a lot. And we know he saw Rollins for a while under an assumed name. It’s not that far of a stretch to think he might have seen Kellen, but . . .” He let it trail off.
Eleri got it. “But we don’t actually have that. Just the possibility.”
Donovan agreed with her. A nod all he was able to give. “With Sullivan, everything has some kind of tie to Cooper Rollins.”
“So we keep following him.” Westerfield said. As though that changed anything. They were already all over that like bacteria on a corpse. “So, the Middle Eastern group has two blond-and-blues now—Kellen and Rollins.”
Donovan and Eleri nodded in tandem and he couldn’t decide if he liked that or was perturbed by it.
“The Indian group, we don’t know, but—” Westerfield continued. “People don’t seem as afraid of Indians as of Syrians and Iraqis. And we have the white, very Christian group. Anyone else?”
“Not that we know of.”
This time, Donovan could see the man was pondering. “Three distinct groups that are carrying out the same crimes. They don’t seem to know about each other, but they use the same passcode. A passcode that hints that they are a cell and far removed from the person or group issuing the orders. But they believe and carry out the tasks. Each group seems to have enough information or impetus to murder someone they are not associated with.”
“Ken Kellen has been
seen with two of the groups.” Eleri supplied.
Westerfield looked at them, from one to the other. “So what would they do next?”
“We don’t know.” She shrugged. Shook her head. Like Donovan, she ran on evidence, but Donovan understood what Westerfield was saying before Eleri made him say the words.
“You’ve got all that in place, what do you think would be the purpose? What would you be doing if you’d set all that up?”
Eleri said it. She didn’t hesitate. The words came out of her mouth exactly as Donovan thought them.
“I’d be planning a massive, simultaneous, multi-point strike.”
27
Eleri hated the words even as they rolled out. This time she didn’t stop her hand as it reached for the grisgris Grandmere had sent her. She would need all the protection she could get, and she would take it from any angle. Besides, Grandmere believed, wouldn’t that be enough?
Eleri didn’t miss that Donovan saw her clutch the talisman even if Westerfield kept talking, oblivious. “There’s your path. Get in and stop it.”
He stood, placing his hands on the table and exiting as though he’d said they should research cell phone plans or figure out where to get the best sushi. He then left before she could muster up the courage to shout, “How?”
Stop a multi-point terrorism attack? Without the Anti-Terrorism Task Force? What if they were wrong?
She wanted to scream. Her eyes watered from the stress of holding it back and it took her a moment to realize that she and Donovan had lost whatever cool mental communication they’d had going. They’d been finishing each other’s sentences, and she’d felt like it was solidifying into a real partnership, not just two people working together. But as soon as Westerfield had dumped the shit pile of the mother of all responsibilities on them, it was gone.
Donovan was still sitting in his chair, whereas she found herself having already leapt to her feet. He looked shocked. As in ‘medical shock’ and she wondered if she should find him a blanket and hot liquids.
His eyes not quite focusing, he rolled his head around to her and in a faintly confused voice, asked, “Did he just tell us to stop a massive terrorist attack and then mosey out the door?”
The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2) Page 23
