The Murderers' Club
Page 30
“No. But I know my rights and those of my employees.” He reads the warrant. “Everything seems in order.”
“Of course.” I manage my most charming smile.
Reid moves over to Heath and puts his arm on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Heath, I know this is all a big mistake. I’ll organize a lawyer for you.”
Heath simply nods his response.
“That’s a generous offer, Mr. Reid,” I say.
He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Jordan has been with me for over ten years, Agent Anderson. It’s the least I can do for him. Particularly when I’m sure you’ve got the wrong man.”
Darren and Dusk’s partner lead Heath out of the office. They’ll take him back to the Bureau’s temporary lock-up area for questioning.
“Heath!” I call before he’s out the door. “Just thought I’d let you know, we’ve got another, much larger team at your apartment, too.”
Darren pulls on Heath’s arm and leads him away, past the onlookers. Talk about a walk of shame. Can’t get much worse than having to walk through your office cuffed.
Reid moves closer to me. “Agent Anderson, I’d like to offer my services to you and the Bureau. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding but I’d like to do everything I can to help you during this investigation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reid. We’ll need to question you and all staff that deal with Mr. Jordan. And while we’re gathering information, your staff will be locked out of their computers.”
He’s obviously unhappy about this, but nods.
“How about if I ask you a few questions while the rest of the team is searching?”
“Sure. Why don’t we go into my office?” He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me effortlessly out the door. “Ms. Jamble, you can return to your desk now,” he says as he passes Heath’s secretary. Outside he addresses the rest of his staff. “I know you’re all concerned about Heath, but don’t worry, I’m sure this is simply a big misunderstanding. While I sort this out, please go back to your desks; however, you’ll be locked out of your computers while the FBI carries out their search. I’ll let you know the minute I know something.”
His request is actioned instantaneously. I study their faces as they disperse. If we’d traced Heath to this company, this computer with IT forensics alone, all the staff would be suspects—anybody could use his computer. But there’s no mistaking a positive visual ID.
Reid leads me to the other back-corner office, but this one is about twice the size of Heath’s. The office is completely glassed on all four walls, creating the illusion of even more space, but presumably diminishing Mr. Reid’s privacy too. Outside the office sits an older woman, around fifty. She has tightly curled brown hair, but despite her obvious maintenance, a hint of gray around her temples makes me suspect she might be a bottle brunette. She wears a tailored navy suit, and the collar of a pale-pink silk shirt drapes across the lapel. Like Reid’s suit, I get the feeling we’re talking Christian Dior rather than GAP. To my surprise, she doesn’t even look up as we approach. She’s either deaf or has trained out all of her curiosity.
“Carolyn.” Reid stops at her desk and I put the brakes on fast to keep myself from walking straight into him.
“Yes?” Now she looks up.
“Two coffees, I think.” He turns to me. “We have an espresso machine. How do you take your coffee?”
“I’ll have a latte, thank you. Strong.”
He smiles. “Thanks, Carolyn. The usual for me.”
“Yes, sir.” She stands up and weaves her way out from behind her desk, revealing a knee-length skirt and skinny legs.
Like Heath’s office, the floor-to-ceiling windows give a magnificent view of San Francisco.
Reid follows my gaze. “It’s not often we get such a clear day. Enjoy it while you can.”
I smile and manage to avert my eyes from the view to take in the rest of the office, which is tastefully and expensively decorated. To one side are two black leather couches, with stainless-steel trim and a matching stainless-steel and glass coffee table—obviously where Mr. Reid conducts his more relaxed meetings. Behind that is a modern, fully stocked bar, with three stools permanently attached to a steel plate that runs the length of the bar.
A large Japanese water feature is in the very center of the room, complete with perfectly smooth, shiny black and white pebbles. In the far corner is a life-size bronze sculpture of a naked woman. The only other art in the room is a beautiful painting directly behind Reid’s desk that’s suspended by wires from the ceiling. I can tell from where I’m standing that it’s an original, because I can see brush strokes in thick masses of paint. The painting seems to me, an uneducated art lover, to be somewhere in between impressionism and abstract art. I can make out that the subject is a man and a woman, but that’s all.
Reid’s still looking at me. “Do you like it?”
My eyes drift down from the painting to Reid. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiles. “An FBI agent who’s also an art lover.”
“I appreciate art, but I’m not very educated on the subject.”
“You don’t have to be educated to be drawn to a piece.”
“No, I guess not.”
Reid motions to a seat in front of his desk while he steps around to his chair. “Do you mind if I just finish this e-mail?” He sits down. “While it’s in my head.”
“Sorry, you’ll be locked out, too.”
Reid seems a little put out, but then smiles charmingly. He stands up again and motions toward a lounge area that forms part of his office—I guess he figures we may as well be comfortable.
“So, down to business.” He sits down. “This really must be some mistake, Agent Anderson.”
I sink into the comfortable leather chair. “I don’t think so.” I pause. “You know Heath Jordan has a criminal record.”
“Yes. A charge when he was much, much younger.”
I raise my eyebrows. “He served five years for armed robbery.”
“He was sixteen. He had it tough.”
“It’s not an excuse, Mr. Reid.”
“No. Certainly not. Call me Justin, please.”
“How long have you known Heath?”
He leans back. “I actually met him while he was serving time.”
He waits for myreaction, but I give him none. “Goon,” isall Isay.
“I’m involved in a number of not-for-profit organizations, including an outreach program for young black offenders. SysTech runs computer classes twice a week in conjunction with the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice.”
“A noble cause.”
“I like to give back to the community.”
He can certainly bloody afford to. I smile.
Reid looks up past me, and I turn around to see his PA entering the office. She places a tray on the corner of the table and unloads our coffees and a plate of biscuits.
“Anything else, sir?”
“No thanks, Carolyn.”
Reid motions to the cookies but I decline the offer.
“Come on, Agent Anderson. You’re a law-enforcement professional. Don’t tell me you’re one of these women who’s constantly dieting.” He manages to deliver the line with enough warmth that it’s genuinely funny rather than condescending.
“No, not at all. I just don’t want to spoil my lunch.” It’s a lie—it’s unlikely I’ll remember to stop for lunch. The truth is, while I’m not dieting as such, I always try to limit my sugar intake.
He eyes me suspiciously and takes a cookie. “I don’t indulge much myself, I must admit.”
The contrast in his personality strikes me as odd—from a commanding leader to this? At times, the way his eyes have lingered on me, it’s even crossed my mind that he’s hitting on me. And a man like Justin Reid would have no trouble getting a woman. With his looks and money, even if he’s a jerk or already married, he’d still get women. But there’s something about him that unsettles me—he’s too smooth.
He licks his lips. “Heath showed a great deal of promise. Occasionally we employ offenders from the program, and that’s what happened in Heath’s case.”
“Minimum wage?”
“Not at all.” He takes a sip of his coffee and if he’s offended by my suggestion he doesn’t show it. “From memory, Heath started working for us full-time at the age of twenty-three on a salary of around thirty thousand.”
I write down the details. “That is generous.”
“I find if you show people respect, they do things to earn it.”
“Really. You must see a nicer side of humanity than I do.”
“I’m sure I do, Agent Anderson. I don’t envy anyone working in law enforcement.”
“I love it actually.” I shrug off his comment.
He continues. “Heath went back to college part-time, and studied information technology, specializing in security. That’s my company’s area of expertise.”
“Really?”
“NetSecure is used by the FBI. Perhaps you’ve noticed it on your computer when you start it up.”
NetSecure…he really is loaded. “Yes, I have.” I move it along, trying to hide the fact that I’m impressed. “So what does Mr. Jordan do for you now?”
“He’s the head of R&D.”
“So he knows his way around computers.”
Reid chuckles. “You could say that.”
“This crime involves computers.”
“Hence the lockout.” It’s sinking in.
I nod.
“But I thought you were charging him with being an accessory to murder.”
“For the moment. But we believe he’s involved in a much broader online scheme.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“Not really, no.”
“But perhaps I can help.” He follows the offer up with one of his charming smiles and then takes a casual sip of his coffee.
“We’ve got the best computer-forensics people on the case.”
He smiles. “I’m sure.” His response is polite, but the undertone of disbelief is obvious. A man like him probably doesn’t think “the best” would work for law enforcement, earning $60,000 to $80,000 a year when they could be on $250,000 or more in the private sector. But job satisfaction’s not about money.
“Have you noticed anything different about Jordan in the past couple of months?” I ask. “Particularly the last five weeks?”
“That’s how long this has been going on then—five weeks?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”
“Sorry.” He takes a few gulps of his coffee. “Well, in answer to your question, no, I haven’t noticed any unusual behavior.”
“Has he taken any vacation days?”
“One or two, I think. You’d have to check with HR to be sure.”
I nod. “Does your company have a helicopter?”
“Of course. We have a private plane and several helicopters across our different offices.”
Silly me. Of course.
“Does Mr. Jordan ever fly the helicopter?”
“How did you know he could fly?”
I smile. “Our witness was flown via helicopter, by Mr. Jordan.”
“Oh.” He seems hesitant. “But that can’t be right. It must be someone else. Someone who perhaps looks like Heath.” Now he seems slightly upset.
“I take it you’re close?”
He doesn’t respond right away. “Yes. I’ve been his mentor, and friend, for years. When I met Heath I’d only just started this company, and was personally putting my time into the outreach program. Now I hire other people to take the classes but my dedication in terms of dollars is more than ten times greater than it was then. Heath is part of that. A good story about what a little positive intervention can do.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Reid, but I’m afraid your trust has been misplaced.”
He shakes his head. “I just…I can’t see it.”
It’s time to disclose more information to Reid—he needs to realize the seriousness of the situation. “I know this must be hard. I mean, serial killers are able to hide their activities even from a wife or partner. It’s common.”
“Serial killers? You’re not saying…”
“Heath is mixed up in something very big and very bad. If he hasn’t personally killed himself, he’s been actively involved in at least six homicides.”
Reid stands up and walks toward the window, sipping his coffee and staring absently at the view, trying to absorb this bombshell. But it looks to me like he’s in denial.
34
As soon as I arrive at the field office I go straight to the interview room and call Darren out.
“Anything?”
“He’s not talking. At all.”
“Shit. We need to find that bunker. And Ling.” I twist the ring on my little finger. “How much have you told him?”
“I’ve been bombarding him with the evidence we have against him. The laptop, Jonathan’s ID of him, the Web site, the name of the club, everything. I even told him that Brooke had rolled on him and said she’d testify against him.”
“And still nothing?”
“No.” Darren rubs his face. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything from him.”
“Okay,” I say, but it’s not what I want to hear. I bite my lip. “Let’s leave him in there for a bit and see what the computer geeks have found on his office and home computers.”
We make our way downstairs and are just about to enter the computer lab when my cell rings. I flip the phone open and look at the number.
“It’s Gerard,” I say to Darren before pressing the call button. “Agent Gerard, tell me you’ve got something.”
“I’ve got something.”
I smile and grab Darren’s arm. “Yes?” I say.
“I’ve managed to get the location of the Australian girl’s Webcam.”
“What? That’s fantastic news!” I think about Ling’s parents, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific now. What parent could sit in another country knowing that their child was missing?
Gerard’s voice is full of confidence and excitement. “She’s close, too.”
“To you or us?”
“You.”
“Where is she?” This time I’m going to make it in time, in time to save Ling. It’s not going to be like Brigitte and the others.
“She’s on a property just outside of Red Bluff, California.”
“Red Bluff?” I ask Darren, having no idea where it is myself.
He nods. “North. Not far.”
“Go on,” I say to Gerard.
“I’ve been able to triangulate the signal to within about fifty yards. I checked out the property on one of our birds, and she’s on a horse ranch. You got a pen?”
“Hold on.” I think about the dust I saw on DialM’s boots in my vision. It was dust from his ranch. I pat down my pockets and then look around until I find a pen and paper on a nearby desk. “Shoot.” I take down the address. “This is fantastic, Gerard. You’re a genius!”
“That, I know. Do you want some more good news?”
“Sure.” The location of Ling was enough, but I’m certainly not going to complain about more leads.
“Jonathan’s getting closer with the Web server location. And that should mean the bunker location.”
“Thanks, Gerard. Call me when you’ve got something new.”
I hang up and fill Darren in on the details. I go back upstairs to put in place all the arrangements for the bust, while Darren covers our original plan and checks in with the San Fran IT guys. I also get Dusk on a background search of the property and its owner.
Twenty minutes later we meet up.
“Well?” Darren says. He’s got a cheeky smile on his face, like he’s holding a royal flush against my pair of nines.
“What?”
He shru
gs. “How’d it go?”
“I’ve got the warrant, and the SWAT team is assembled and waiting downstairs. We should be able to make DialM’s place in about an hour. You?”
He grins again.
“Spit it out!”
“Heath Jordan is AmericanPsycho.”
“What?”
“Log records on his laptop indicate access to www. murderersclub. com using the ID of AmericanPsycho, and the computer also has that Roke Manor software installed. We’ve got the president.”
I give him a hard punch in the arm. “You bastard. I bet you’ve known that for nearly all of the last twenty minutes.”
“Pretty much. I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help grinning. “We’ve got the president.” But even as I say it, I feel uncertain. Could it be this easy? Could we really have the mastermind behind bars?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake the feeling away. Evidence doesn’t lie—we’ve got Psycho. And soon we’ll have DialM. I look at my watch. “That leaves us with only NeverCaught to find, and getting the girls out of the bunker.” I turn around and we make our way to Dusk’s desk. “How’d you do?” I ask Dusk.
“A title search found the owner—one Victor Petrov. I’ve looked him up on the system. No criminal record, but we do have some info on him.” Dusk shuffles some papers. “Russian heritage but born here. He’s semiretired. He used to train racehorses and now he uses his fifty-acre property as a small breeding ranch. He’s also extremely wealthy according to his IRS records.”
“A prerequisite of the club,” Darren says.
* * *
A couple of miles before the turnoff to Petrov’s ranch, the SWAT van and the Bureau contingent pull in. The SWAT team is led by Rhode, a young man who looks like a stereotypical marine. Dusk, Darren and I join Rhode and his men inside the van for the final review of the plans. I’ve given Rhode the lead on the bust—he’s certainly more prepared for this kind of a takedown than I am.
“Okay. Our latest satellite picture confirms two heat signatures. This one is weaker.” He points to the map. “And we’re assuming this is our hostage. She’s in the barn, possibly underground, which would account for the lower heat-source reading.”