“How well did you get to know him?”
A slight smile. He realized the guy was catching on to his real purpose.
“Dylan Hunter? I did get to know him a bit. A very dedicated reporter.” He glanced at his wife. “In fact, we invited him here for dinner, to meet with a few local people being harassed. He also met with Adam. Dr. Adam Silva—the toxicologist that Boggs later murdered.”
Now that was interesting. “So he met the murder victim?”
“Attended his funeral, too,” Adair answered, an edge creeping into his voice. “We went there together. Met his widow and kids.” He broke eye contact. “One of the hardest days in my life.”
Cronin paused, absorbing it. He considered the nervous behavior of Adair’s wife and son.
“So Mrs. Adair—you also met him at dinner.”
She nodded. “I did.” She added, unnecessarily. “And he seemed like a very nice man.”
Cronin looked across the room. “How about you, Will? Did you ever meet Mr. Hunter?”
The kid turned to face him. He was skinny with light hair and evasive eyes.
“I think so. Well, yeah. When he and the lady came to the drill site. I met him out there.”
“Lady?” Cronin asked.
The kid’s eyes flashed to his father’s, looking trapped.
“Yes,” Adair interjected. The hard expression had returned. “He was accompanied by a young woman that day. A friend.”
Cronin smiled. “Ah. Probably his girlfriend, Ann Woods.”
“I believe that was her name. Yes.”
“Lovely person. Did Mr. Hunter ever return here at a later time?”
Adair frowned. “Not to my knowledge. You seem focused on him, Detective. Mind if I ask why?”
Cronin sat back. “Hunter and Boggs appear to have had some personal issues between them. In fact, Boggs sent a bomb to his newspaper, intended for him. I was with Hunter when he got the message about that. He was extremely upset.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“Exactly. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Look, Detective, I’d really like to help you, but I don’t understand exactly where this is going.”
“Mr. Adair, I spent yesterday with the state police here, going over the crime scene evidence in the deaths of Mr. Boggs and Mr. Nash. Nash had been stabbed repeatedly, and his body was found inside his own car, abandoned off a road a couple of miles from here. It was clear that he had been murdered elsewhere, though, not in the car. Whoever did it transported him to that spot, then wiped his vehicle clean of any fingerprints. As for Boggs, his remains were located in an isolated area of the forest. There wasn’t much of him left, but it looks as if he may have been tortured before he was murdered.”
He paused. Watched her swallow and grow pale. Adair was good, though. He actually smiled.
“You don’t say. I’m glad to hear it. ‘Live by the sword,’ and all that.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it. For a while, we thought he killed Nash, but it no longer looks that way. Looks like somebody else killed them both.”
“Looks to me like that ‘somebody’ deserves a medal.”
“Now, you know it doesn’t work that way, Mr. Adair. We can’t have people taking the law into their own hands—if that’s what this was. But it could be somebody else in their gang did it. In which case, we have another nutjob killer out there.”
“That’s a scary thought,” the woman said. She didn’t sound that scared.
“However, there was some interesting evidence near the place where they found Boggs’s body.”
Cronin paused. Saw her swallow. Adair waited him out, expressionless.
“There were tire tracks out there,” he continued, “from an all-terrain vehicle. An ATV.”
She looked even more uncomfortable. Adair nodded.
“Yes, Detective, we know what an ATV is. I own one myself. A lot of people around here have them.”
“That’s what I found out. And when they checked the tire prints, they were able to tell they came from a specific kind of ATV. A Kawasaki Mule. They put together a list of everyone around here who’s bought one of the models with that kind of tire on it. And—”
“—and they found out I own one. So that’s why you’re here.”
Cronin shrugged. “You have to admit, it’s an interesting series of coincidences. You are threatened and targeted by Boggs and his group. Then he and one of his pals are found murdered, in particularly nasty ways, within a few miles of your home. Then tire tracks from an ATV like the one you own are found close to the crime scene where Boggs was killed.”
“Just a minute!” the woman snapped. “My husband wouldn’t—”
“Easy, Nan,” Adair said, patting her shoulder. “You and I both know the detective here is way off base.”
“I am?”
Adair actually smiled. “And you know it, too, Detective. Because if the state and local cops really thought I had anything to do with those murders, and had any evidence, you wouldn’t be here; they would.” He turned to his wife. “Nan, he’s not after me. He knows I had nothing to do with this.”
“If that’s true, Mr. Adair, you could clear things up for us right now, by letting me have a look at your ATV.”
“Be glad to,” Adair said. “It’s right out in the garage. Honey, why don’t you take the roast out of the oven. You and Will can start in, if you want. This shouldn’t take long.”
Adair led him out there, past a couple of cars, to the far bay.
“It’s a bit dim over here,” he said. “Here—have a flashlight.” He grabbed one off his tool bench and offered it to Cronin.
“Thanks.”
Adair pointed to the vehicle. It was several years old and bore some scratches and dents. But it looked almost new. Getting near, Cronin saw it had been washed and thoroughly cleaned. He bent over the rear bed and inspected it closely. It looked spotless. He pulled out a couple of photos of the tire tread from his jacket pocket—a shot from the crime scene, and a manufacturer’s photo of the tire model—then squatted down and directed the beam at one of the rear tires.
It was brand-new. He flicked the light toward the front tire. Also mint.
He rose to his feet, snapped off the flashlight.
“So you replaced the tires. And also went out of your way to get this thing immaculately clean. What owner does that to an ATV?”
Adair crossed his arms over his chest. “How about an owner who has put his ATV up for sale? Want to see the newspaper ads?”
Cronin had to admire him. He was one cool bastard. Like the guy he was protecting.
“Come on, we both know this isn’t about me,” Adair went on, shaking his head. “Like I said, if it was, I’d be talking to the staties. A cop from the Vigilante Task Force in D.C. wouldn’t come up here unless what happened to Boggs and Nash had something to do with whoever you’re after.”
“You’re a smart guy, Mr. Adair. No wonder you’re such a successful businessman.”
“And you’re a smart cop, Detective Cronin. But if I’m guessing right about what you suspect, you’re making a big mistake.”
“So, what big mistake am I making?”
Adair glanced down at his watch. Unfolded his arms.
“My dinner is getting cold, Detective. Here, I’ll open the garage door and let you out.”
3
“You were right.” Adair’s gruff baritone was loud in the phone at his ear. “This guy Cronin was definitely interested in you, and also in the ATV tracks. Glad you warned me, so I was able to change the tires and clean it up before he came sniffing around asking questions.”
“Actually, it was Annie who warned me some time ago about the possibility of tire tracks,” Hunter said. “She saved our butts. Did you get any sense of what else he knows or suspects?”
“I think he suspects a lot more than he knows, or can prove. I’m sure he noticed that Nan and Will were nervous—I did. But lots of people are nervou
s talking to cops. The only thing he probably didn’t know before, but slipped out, is that Annie was up here with you when you visited our drilling site.”
Hunter didn’t like that. It could make her a possible suspect in what happened to Nash. But they had no evidence she was there at his time of death.
“Not a big deal,” he said. “I’m more concerned that the state cops might pursue the ATV angle. It’s all they seem to have as physical evidence, but you also had a motive.”
He heard Adair’s chuckle. “Well, Cronin will tell them they no longer have any ATV evidence. As for motive—hell, ninety percent of the folks around here hated those ecoterrorist bastards, too.”
“Still, be careful. I know Cronin. He doesn’t give up. You might see him again. You should expect it, and tell Nan and Will to expect it, too. You don’t want to be caught off guard and reveal something you shouldn’t.”
“Right. I’ll talk to them. Don’t you worry. It’ll be okay. We got your backs.”
He caught the plural. “Thanks. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
“And I can’t tell you how much we owe you. Tell you what: You get your ass here in November, I’ll take you deer hunting. You ever done that?”
He smiled to himself. “Sure. I told you my dad used to take me to the Allegheny Forest to hunt.”
“That’s right. You did mention that. Did you enjoy it?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Annie headed down a seventh-floor corridor of the Old Headquarters Building, holding the last three sealed envelopes she still had to distribute today.
They had narrowed the suspect pool considerably, and surprisingly fast. Grant had just run a clever check on his own boss—Director of Operations Les Sisler—and cleared him. In truth, Sisler had never been high on their list. Though Grant described him as “a weenie,” Sisler had never tried to impede his work over the past decade.
Meanwhile, her own bait, circulated throughout Ops, had generated no discernible reactions from Moscow. If the mole were in that directorate, she and Grant were reasonably sure their efforts would have provoked a noticeable response. So, tomorrow, they’d have to circulate “corrected” memos, to undo any problems arising from their fake ones.
Since this morning, she’d begun to work her way through the Directorate of Analysis. She still had two stops to make there—plus one with someone they hadn’t been able to vet so far: Wesley Burroughs. As right-hand man to the DCI himself, the former analyst had unlimited access. Which meant if he were the mole, he had been doing incalculable damage.
Annie entered the “front office” area that housed the executive staff, stopping first at Analysis. She went through the clearance rituals with the executive assistant, a gruff, forbidding woman. From previous experience, Annie knew her favorite word was “can’t.” Insisting that the SCI document from Garrett had to be hand-delivered, she finally wrangled permission to enter the directorate’s inner sanctum.
Agnes Headley reminded Annie of the actress who had played “Nurse Ratched” in the old movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” In her early fifties, Headley wore her medium-brown hair pulled back tightly. Her broad, flat face always looked expressionless, but up close her pale eyes betrayed flickers of constant scheming. Grant had warned Annie that the woman’s M.O. was passive-aggressive manipulation.
Headley sat behind her massive desk, staring down at papers and ignoring her entrance.
After twenty seconds of this, Annie strode to the desk and plopped the sealed envelope atop the stack of papers she was reading. Headley jerked back and looked up.
“This is from Mr. Garrett,” Annie said, “your eyes only. Not to be circulated more widely.” She turned on her heel and headed back toward the door.
“Just what in hell do you think you’re doing, marching in here and—”
“My job,” Annie said, without turning.
Her next stop was just down the hall. This time she got right in without a hassle; Grant had called ahead, notifying Wesley Burroughs to expect her. He actually stood and came around the desk to greet her with a handshake and a grin, all teeth. The handshake lasted three seconds too long, and he looked her up and down as he accepted the envelope.
Burroughs squinted at the security markings on its exterior. “So, what’s this all about?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, sir. Mr. Garrett just said it was important for me to hand-deliver it to you, and only to you. He also said it should be secured in your safe after reading.”
“Interesting,” he said, looking at her, not the envelope. “How mysterious.”
“That describes pretty much everything in this building.”
He laughed, again showing lots of teeth. Though his swarthy face made her think of a street hood, Burroughs dressed nattily and wore custom wingtips with extra-thick heels, to compensate for his diminutive stature. At this proximity, she also could tell he dyed his hair dark brown.
“You’re funny, Ms. Woods. And smart. I recall your work on the Muller investigation. Really brilliant. Tell me . . . do you like your current position?”
“Best job I ever had.” She fixed him with a blank stare. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world, sir.”
“Are you sure? I have an opening coming up in my office, and someone like—”
“As I said, I’m perfectly happy where I am.” She waved the third envelope in her hand. “I have to deliver this downstairs, right away. So I’ll be on my way, sir.”
“Oh. Sure, all right.” The disappointment in his face was obvious. “Thank you so much for this . . . and for being so conscientious. You’re a real asset here, Ms. Woods.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
She turned and walked away, quickly, knowing he was watching her ass and legs. It made her grit her teeth and hope he was the mole. She’d enjoy seeing Burroughs doing a perp walk in cuffs outside a courthouse.
Her last stop was several floors and a hike away. En route, she had to consult a posted wall map. The layout at Langley was chaotic, with various divisions within the four directorates scattered between the two headquarters buildings, Old and New. She was glad the mission centers weren’t yet up and running: Drawing from all elements of the Agency, they would have made an investigation like this infinitely more complicated.
She finally found the Office of Russian and European Analysis and was buzzed into the secure vaulted area. The room was filled with cubicles where analysts hovered behind large computer screens and stacks of documents. The guy at the entrance pointed her in the right direction. She meandered through the room to an office along the wall. The door was closed and locked, so she knocked and waited.
After a moment, Kurt Spitzer opened it part way and stuck his head out.
“What is—” His face brightened as he saw her. “Oh . . . hi. May I help you?”
“Mr. Spitzer, I’m Annie Woods, from Ops. I work with the deputy director. He asked me to hand-deliver this. As you can see, it’s SCI. Only for you, as Russia House chief, and not for further circulation or discussion.”
Spitzer stepped outside to accept the envelope. He was tall and not wearing his suit jacket, which revealed he spent a lot of time in the gym. He grinned and eyed her the way Burroughs had—a reminder they’d been fraternity brothers at Yale. But where his pal sported short dark hair, Spitzer’s was blond, and worn at a length fashionable twenty years ago, while he was still in his thirties.
“Of course.” He smiled down at her and crossed his arms, to make his biceps bulge more. “‘Woods . . . Woods.’ Why is that familiar?”
“It’s what you see when you look out your window. Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Spitzer.”
She left him with his envelope and his leer.
2
On Thursday morning, Hunter devoted most of his workout at the Silver Spring dojo to sparring with a guy who, like himself, had trained for years in krav maga, the Israeli self-defense system.
&nb
sp; His own martial arts experience over two decades had been eclectic. It started in college with hapkido, in which he earned a black belt. In the CIA, he discovered krav maga, impressed by its self-defense practicality and brutal efficiency. But Hunter knew real-world fights required the ability to absorb punches and kicks, and they usually ended up on the ground. So, seven years ago he started MMA training, to get used to full-contact sparring and learn jiu-jitsu grappling moves. To keep himself sharp he also tried to get in some dojo time each week, in addition to his gym workouts.
This morning’s sparring session ended with a half-hour of grappling on the mat, practicing various chokes, pins, and escapes. He hit the shower exhausted but satisfied.
Back at the apartment, he powered up a burner, checked his phone account through the spoof site, and was surprised to find it loaded with waiting messages from Danika. Which couldn’t be good. He called back at once.
“It’s been crazy, Mr. Hunter! I don’t know what’s going on. Three urgent messages from your editor, Mr. Bronowski, one from a Darrell Ellis at WTOP, two from Nancy Lafferty at the Washington Post, another from Shelly McIntyre at CNN, then Erik Greenwald at the New York Times . . .”
“Whoa! Easy, girl. Let’s do this: I’ll contact my editor first and see what’s going on. Then I’ll call you back and collect all the other messages, okay?”
“Okay . . . Oh, here comes another call.”
“Take it. I’ll be back to you in a little while.”
Hunter thumbed in Bronowski’s direct line.
“Yeah?”
“Bill, it’s Dylan. What’s going on?”
“You don’t know? Where’ve you been, Antarctica?”
“I’ve been out this morning. Tell me.”
“This group you’ve been investigating, Currents, and their media guy, Carver? They held a news conference at ten. They issued a rebuttal statement to your article—and then they went directly after you. Remember how last year I said I’d Googled your name, but couldn’t come up with anything about you more than a couple years old? Well, they checked into your background, too, and they’re saying ‘Dylan Hunter’ doesn’t even exist. That your identity is fake.”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 35
