by F J messina
Sonia waited until she had walked around the side of the house before she slid the little leather case out of her pocket. She found a back door that was partially hidden from the view of others by a flower-covered trellis. She was relieved that, it being a back door, there wasn’t one of those new computer-based doorbells that let people see you on their phones if you approach the entrance. In fact, as she thought about it, she hadn’t seen one on the front door either. She let out a tiny chuckle. I guess it all feels too new-fangled for an old man like Carl Rasmussen.
Before Sonia went to work on the door with one of the lock picks, it struck her that she wished she was wearing rubber gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. Oh well, something else I should be keeping in my car at all times. It took her about ninety seconds to get the lock to spring. She was proud of herself for getting the door open, though a little frustrated that it had taken her so long to accomplish the task.
She was also disappointed, though not surprised, when the home’s alarm system went off. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about the alarm or tried to figure out how to disarm it. This was a high-end community with expensive homes and a security guard. They all had sophisticated alarm systems that weren’t easily defeated.
Sonia stepped into the house, rattled by the sound of the alarm, but determined to get the task accomplished. She was grateful that she knew exactly where the computer was and that she wasn’t going to be stymied by any sort of internal security. Carl never even used a password.
Sitting at the computer, Sonia found it hard to concentrate with the alarm blaring in her ears. Finally, it stopped. She knew, however, what that meant. It indicated that the signal had been sent to the security system’s dispatcher and that the phone would ring any moment, asking if there was some reason why they shouldn’t send the police.
She worked as quickly as she could. The list of recently opened files came up. At its top was the WOCR file, Carl Rasmussen’s will. She let a tiny smile cross her lips. The fact that the WOCR file was at the top of the list indicated that no one had been on the computer since Sonia had opened it the other day.
The phone rang. She jumped in her chair. Though she had expected the call, it still jarred her. She was aware of the fact that when the phone stopped ringing, she could be certain the dispatcher’s fingers would go immediately to the phone number of the local police. It would now be a matter of minutes before the police were there.
Sonia was looking for deleted files. Not files that were sitting neatly in the “Deleted Files” folder, but files that had been completely “erased” from the computer.
Trying to keep her focus as she felt the minutes ticking by, Sonia bore down. She was using knowledge that the average person didn’t have, even folks with “good computer skills.” She was doing things she had learned as a computer science major at a significant university, finding files that other people were certain no longer existed.
Working in DOS, a computer language unknown to most mortals, Sonia was able to find three files that, though encrypted, seemed promising. She pulled a forty-gig memory stick out of her pocket, slipped it into the computer, and began the process of transferring the information from the computer to the stick. Unfortunately, as she waited for that to happen, it struck her that her car was sitting on the street, right in front of the house. If she was going to have any chance of getting away with this intrusion, an illegal intrusion, she was going to have to be in her car and gone before the police even turned the corner of Bellevie Road.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time, the computer finally indicated that the transfer was complete. Sonia shut the computer down, jumped out of her chair, and was just about to wipe her fingerprints off the computer when she realized that Frieda Schiessl would certainly recall her being there the other day. Better to have her fingerprints still there. Having literally run through the house, however, she had no hesitation about wiping her fingerprints off the doorknob as she left the house. She was certain that she had been careful to touch nothing else while she was in there.
Sonia desperately wanted to run to her car. She realized, however, that the alarm was no longer sounding. She forced herself to walk at a normal pace, though it felt like she was slogging through waist-deep water in the ocean. The whole time, she knew that there was no chance she was going to make it to her car and drive away before the police showed up. And yet, she did.
Not only was she gone before the police arrived, but the big smile she received from the security guard at the gate made it clear to her that he wasn’t in the loop. No one had alerted him. Of course, she realized as her stomach flipped yet again, he would remember letting her on the property in order to visit Carl Rasmussen. She shuddered. That’s a problem I’m just going to have to deal with at another time.
38
Tuesday morning, Brad Dunham was sitting at his desk in the white house across the street from Magee’s. It was the building in which his own firm, Semper Fi Investigations, was located. Although he had agreed to drop everything and help Sonia and Jet with their BCI investigation, there were still lots of things going on in his world. He was fully aware that it was Day Five, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important for him to be in touch with several of his own clients. He had been at his desk since six-thirty that morning.
Around ten-thirty, Brad received a text from Gabriela Castillo. SITTING IN MY CAR AT THE EMBERS MOTEL. NEED TO LEAVE SOON. CAN YOU MEET ME?
Brad replied. ON MY WAY. Brad really didn’t know much about Gabriela, but what he did know was that she could take care of herself. She had proven that when she was part of an investigation that centered around three young women. He felt confident that she was okay but was still eager to get to her, just to make sure. Before he took off for The Embers, Brad tried to call Sonia. He was surprised and a bit frustrated when he couldn’t get through. Instead, he sent her a text. ON MY WAY TO THE EMBERS TO RELIEVE GABRIELA. WILL LET YOU KNOW WHAT I FIND OUT.
As Brad drove down Richmond Road, out to New Circle Road, and around to the north end of town, he thought about the hundreds of investigations he had done as a Marine assigned to NCIS. So many of them had been intense, really intense, but he could think of only a handful that had been brought to completion under a five-day time constraint. He hoped for Sonia and Jet that somehow they would have this case wrapped up by the end of the day. As complicated as it was, he had his doubts.
Brad pulled into the parking lot at The Embers and waited. It was just a few moments before he saw the exotic woman in clothing much more suited for an evening rendezvous than a mid-morning meeting approach his car. Without knocking on the window, or even saying a word, she opened the door and slid into the supple leather seat.
“Nice.” Her hand reached out and touched the dashboard, the console, the sun visor. She turned and looked at him, running her fingers through her hair just above her ear. “Very nice.”
Brad simply nodded. “Thanks.” He took a long look at her. “So, where are we? You look beat.”
Gabriela yawned before she spoke. “You would too if you had spent most of the night sitting in your car, making certain the person you were watching didn’t just get in his vehicle and drive away.”
“That’s it?” Brad seemed perplexed. “You just watched his room from the car?
Gabriela rolled her head on her stiff shoulders. “No. I found our guy sitting alone in the lounge last night. We had a drink and then he invited me to his room.”
Brad looked at her. “Just like that, he invited you to his room?”
Gabriela’s next words reflected an inner confidence. “I don’t think he had any choice.” The smile on her face made it clear that she was not going to say any more.
“Okay.” Brad let out a subtle chuckle. “Then what?”
As Gabriela answered, her head turned to the right, her eyes roaming the empty parking lot as if the conversation were boring her. “Let’s just say we had a heart to heart conversation.”
&nbs
p; Brad had worked with plenty of different agents and informants over the years. Perhaps one of his greatest strengths as an investigator was the ability to have discussions with all kinds of people—straight ahead people, coy people, honest people, liars. That didn’t mean that this conversation was any less interesting. A tiny smile worked its way across his lips. “And are you going to share with me any of the highlights of that heart to heart?”
Gabriela was still playing coy. “Well, he did tell me an interesting story about losing his coal company and then losing his bourbon. He said the man he was looking for had cheated him at cards. But I’m not sure I believed him.”
“Why is that?”
Gabriella played with the ends of her long, black hair. “A man who feels cheated, really cheated by a thief, his anger is hot, white hot.” She pouted her lips. “But a man who feels cheated by life, that’s different. That kind of man is angry, but it’s a dark, hopeless anger.”
“And?” Brad’s eyebrows rose. “Which one was he?”
Gabriela let out a short breath. “The second. The man is hopeless, hopeless and angry.”
Brad’s fingers tapped on the steering wheel. “And?”
Gabriela turned her face to his, suddenly serious. “And, he said these words to me. ‘I came to Lexington to kill them both, the Rasmussen’s, both of them. One is already a dead man. I’m just waiting for the chance to finish the other.’ ”
Brad’s fingers stopped tapping. He had hoped that the trip Sonia and he had taken the day before, and the surveillance Gabriela had done that night, might lead them to a real suspect. He’d never expected an out and out confession. He paused a moment, then looked at Gabriela. “And how, exactly, did you get Zeke to tell you that?”
She turned slowly and looked directly at him—dark brown eyes, almost black. “There are two things, Brad, that will make a man bare his soul in the middle of the night.” Her voice became increasingly breathy. “One is bourbon,” she paused and looked away, “the other is sex.”
Brad had dealt with too many different people in his life to be shocked by almost anything. Still. “And?”
Gabriela turned back to him. “And last night he had too much of one, and less than he had hoped for of the other.” Gabriela pulled on the fancy door handle and pushed the door open. “After a while, I left him alone in his room and just watched from my car to make sure he didn’t leave.” She swung her legs and slipped out of the car. Turning back to Brad, she smiled. “I’ve got to go to work.”
Brad watched her walk back to her own car, her hips moving back and forth in a way few women’s could. “Wow.” It was all he said. As he did, he dialed Sonia’s number.
39
Johnny Adams had gotten a phone call from Ricky Oliver, telling him to meet Ricky in an abandoned warehouse on Manchester Street, just past some rock’n’roll club called The Burl. The warehouse was more than abandoned, it was almost hidden, lying behind a decaying old factory building and accessible only by a dirt driveway and down a steep hill.
As Johnny pulled up to the building, he noticed Ricky’s car. Although Lexington police officers are able to use their official vehicles when they’re off duty, Ricky had chosen to drive his personal car, a sharp-looking, red Dodge Charger. Slipping out of his own Accord, Johnny walked toward the large, garage-door opening in the front of the building. Out of habit, as he passed the Charger, he put his hand on the hood of the car. Still warm. He’s only been here a few minutes.
As Johnny stepped into the building, Ricky called out to him. “Johnny, back here!”
Johnny stopped for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The building was all but empty, though there were ten or twelve used oil drums stacked to his left and a pile of broken and discarded wooden crates farther into the building and on his right. “Coming!” He wanted to ask Ricky to come out to him but was trying not to arouse any suspicions. He had enough of his own.
Johnny found Ricky sitting in a broken-down swivel chair next to an ancient metal desk by the back wall. Sitting on it was an old, black telephone that was plugged into the wall. “Hey, man. Sorry I couldn’t set this up for you sooner. Not easy to get hold of Toro, know what I mean?”
Johnny couldn’t help but hold his left side with his right hand as he spoke. “Yeah, that’s okay. But why here?”
Ricky gave him a big country-boy grin. It fit with his large frame, straw-colored hair, and broad, clean-shaven face. “Security, man. Security. You were a cop. You know how it goes. Nowadays we’re all about plucking conversations out of the ether, listening in on fools who think their conversations are private. But you can’t listen in on a landline conversation without a warrant. This is the only way Toro will talk to you, and damn, there ain’t too many landline phones around anymore—not that you can talk on freely.”
“Yeah, sure.” It made sense to Johnny. Still, he certainly had his antennae up for anything suspicious.
He got another big grin from Ricky. “You ready to do this?”
“Let’s do it.” Johnny watched as Ricky dialed the phone number then handed the phone to Johnny.
“Hola. Este es Toro.”
“Toro. Johnny Adams here.
“Sí. Yes, Johnny. How are you?”
“Been better. Seems like one of your female acquaintances was pretty intent on helping me leave the country—on a permanent basis if you know what I mean.”
“Well, my friend. Apparently, she is not as, how did she put it, proficient, as she said she was. Are you okay?”
“Like I said, I’ve been better. I’ve got a hole in my left side that won’t stop bleeding and I really need to see a doctor soon, one who won’t ask any questions.”
“Ah, sí.”
“More importantly, I’m thinking that might be a waste of time unless I can convince you to call off your people and let me be.”
“Hmm. Now, Johnny, why would I do that?”
“Listen, didn’t I take care of things for you in Lexington when that Vitale chic and her Marine friend managed to snag Dimitrov and Xin Li? Seems that if it weren’t for me, the Federales would have heard from the US DEA and your whole operation might have been rolled up. As it was, all they got were a few drivers who didn’t know much more than where the drop-off points were. The way I see it, I saved your ass. And now, you’re trying to burn mine. Doesn’t seem fair, now, does it?”
“Johnny, Johnny. You’re right. I know you’re right. You’re a good soldier. I should be very grateful for what you’ve done, and I am.”
“Right. So, we’re good then?”
“Almost. You see, Johnny, I know it. I know you’re a good soldier, one who protected me. Or was it you that you were protecting yourself?” Johnny’s pulse started racing as he felt the conversation shift. “Right, Johnny? Weren’t you just protecting yourself?”
“Well—”
Toro’s words quickened. “No, Johnny. Too late to explain. I know that you were trying to protect yourself and I congratulate you for that. But, you Johnny, you are a soldier, right?”
“I guess.”
Toro was racing now. “And if a soldier will shoot the captain who was in charge of all of Kentucky just to protect himself, what will he do to the general if he gets himself caught?”
Johnny scrambled. “I see, but—”
“Oh, mi amigo. If you shoot the captain to save yourself, you will surely turn on the general if you get caught. True? Now what—”
Johnny didn’t hear any of the words that followed. What he did hear was the sound of Ricky’s sidearm sliding out of the leather holster at his hip.
Ricky hadn’t realized that Johnny had been careful to nonchalantly keep his back to his former colleague. And though, from behind, it looked as though Johnny had the old black handset in his left hand and was holding his hurting left side with his right, that right hand had slipped into his lightweight jacket and was now firmly grasping his Glock 17. He spoke with a lift in his voice. “Okay. Thank you so much. I really appreciate
it. I’ll tell Ricky. I’m sure he can get me to that doc without anyone being the wiser.” He waited. “Yes, thank you. Just let me say . . .”
With that, Johnny spun around. BLAM! The gun roared in his hand as he fired at Ricky before his former colleague could grasp what was happening.
“Shit!” Ricky dodged to his right. BLAM! BLAM! The explosions filled the room as Ricky fired wildly, running for cover behind a sturdy metal support post. “What the hell, man?”
Johnny was in no mood to have the kind of conversation that viewers see in a police drama on TV—the kind in which people explain their motives while trying to kill each other. He had only one decision to make—the wooden crates that were closest or the oil barrels that were furthest away. No brainer. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Shooting wildly himself, he ran for the oil barrels.
Stumbling over a barrel that was lying on its side, his ears ringing from the echoing sound of handguns discharged in the empty building, Johnny slid behind another barrel, peeking out, wondering where Ricky had gone.
Moments of silence ticked by as Johnny wondered if he could make it out of the building and to his car without being gunned down by his former friend. Hell, he didn’t want to kill Ricky. Maybe he could—
SNAP. Ricky appeared suddenly behind Johnny and to his left, at the other end of the barrels. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Falling backward to the floor, Johnny could hear bullets whizzing past his head and his police training echoing in his mind. “One well-aimed shot always beats a crazy barrage from a gun that keeps rising in the hand of a man firing wildly.” He froze, aimed, squeezed. BLAM! Ricky fell to the floor.
