“Thanks, Joe. Anything else, give me a call.”
“Would a key to the house help? I’m the landlord.”
Chapter 53
“Here’s an invoice for $789, Zeke. It includes dozens of cleaning tasks, like ‘bleach drains, clean air returns, vacuum under carpets’.”
Surely for that kind of money, nothing was missed, but still he searched the rooms, cupboards, inside appliances, under carpeting, behind pictures, around the yards, and in every corner of the garage.
Two hours later, he was frustrated and needed a break. “I’ll be next door. Do you want to come?” But Kali disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
One of the last places her son felt happy, with the belief Mom kept him safe, was in this eight-by-twelve room. Its gleaming windows sparkled, carpets bristled, the tiny closet bare and pristine. Kali inhaled the scent of rosin leftover from the raucous explosion in a vigorous musical selection. She picked out the rich fragrance of the wood polish Sean applied to his bass. She searched the shelves, between the furniture, behind curtains—everywhere for clues.
Nothing.
She collapsed onto the floor, back resting heavily against his bed. She could see him, earbuds in place, reviewing professional renditions of favorite pieces, matching his fingering and bowing to their interpretation, adjusting for fortes and pianissimos. She wriggled, trying to think like Sean. He wouldn’t sleep in the bed because making it wasted time. He’d lean against it, using the natural light from the window.
But the bookcase had been moved. It blocked the window which Sean would never do. He loved nature’s power, sun or rain, always wanted to add it to his music. She walked the cabinet side to side until it dropped back into its original place.
What was that? Faint marks were etched into the baseboard. She got her penlight and splashed a circle of light over the shallow contours. Random scratches, but new. She backed up to gain a perspective and saw it.
“I hear you, sweetheart. I’m coming.”
Connie and Matt Monroe could be twins in their matching white yacht pants, deck shoes, and blue-and-white striped Polos. Connie had a jaunty red scarf tied around her plump neck, and her husband wore a ball cap with the logo of a local Little League team. Matt stared wide-eyed at Kali as she joined the group and then started sneezing violently.
“Hon, are you alright? Do you need some water?”
“No, pumpkin, I’ll be fine.” He put a protective arm around Connie and glared at Kali, as though daring her to out him.
“Like I was saying, Special Agent Rowe, Sam and Edik are cultured people. Our type.”
Matt’s fingers pinched into Connie’s shoulder. She tried to shake him off as she continued. “They’re well-regarded Russian musicians. We went to concerts at the Philharmonic together. They have box seats.” Her nose edged up.
“Did they ever act suspiciously,” Both heads started shaking before Zeke finished his question, “or invite people over you thought might be dangerous?”
“Of course not!” But concern clouded Connie’s face and fright, Matt’s. The man Kali knew as Fred by now must realize the job he did for Al-Zahrawi was bigger than a drop-in visit to a grad student. Zeke thumbed his glasses up, a nervous tick he developed in the last few days. Now that she thought about it, he didn’t wear glasses. Well, except at the field study, in Israel.
“Is something wrong?” Connie’s eyes darted from Rowe to Matt.
“You better check the pie, precious. We have those kids on their way over.”
“My goodness! Where’s my head.” She pressed her palms against her temples. “The Garden Club planned a children’s day and we graciously offered our house. I have so much to do!”
As Connie hurried off, Rowe faced Matt. “Let’s start with why you pay no rent.” His voice was now all business.
Matt spread his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s called a real estate exchange—I trade my Hudson property for this one.”
“What’s that address?”
Matt popped a Life Saver into his mouth. “What’s this about? I don’t have to talk to you.”
Kali was seething. She wanted to slap the insipid smirk off his Botoxed face and demand he explain how a teenage boy was abducted outside his kitchen window. Was he preening for an evening at the theatre as the Vitolska’s slashed her son so ruthlessly, an eighty-year-old man with bifocals saw the damage a hundred feet away?
Instead, she kept her face neutral.
“Last time we were here, you told us about your side job doing errands for Salah Mahmud Al-Zahrawi. What you didn’t mention is how dependent you are on that income. Your paycheck falls far short of covering Connie’s designer clothes, luncheons, the gentlemen’s club, the golf membership, your girlfriends, and those other extra-curricular activities.”
Matt’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “What gives you the right to hack into my finances?” His lip quivered. He tried for righteous and ended up frightened.
Kali couldn’t stop herself this time. “My son’s missing and a good friend gave her life trying to find him. Al-Zahrawi connects everything—“
“Which connects you to breaking and entering, conspiracy, and murder.” Rowe caught Kali’s eye and then moved back to Matt. “You’re a small fish. Help us get Al-Zahrawi, you could come out of this OK.”
Matt glared at Kali and sputtered, “I’m just a guy trying to make ends meet.”
Rowe clenched his jaw. “When Al-Zahrawi contacts you again, call me,” and he handed Matt his card. “You could save a boy’s life.”
Matt shoved it in his pocket and sprinted into the house.
Rowe stared after his fleeing form. “Did you find anything in Sean’s room?”
Kali’s voice softened. “He scratched ‘momom’ into the baseboard. He calls me that when he needs help. I call him ‘Shanayus’—spelled ‘S-e-a-n-a-e-s’. He knew last Friday he was in trouble, but thought the camp was secure. What changed that?”
“I think Sean’s kidnapping was unplanned, Kali. Whatever Annie said made them believe she could blow Al-Zahrawi’s plan apart. Sean is insurance.”
The sun had already set, but Rowe had one last stop before returning to New York. The phone call Matt placed after visiting Kali had terminated at a cell tower by the West Coxsackie Best Western. Probably a dead end, but Rowe turned over and pulverized every rock.
“You check us in while I talk to a few people.” To Rowe’s surprise, Kali didn’t argue. In fact, she’d fallen asleep, head resting against the window.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the rambling one-story Inn. Kali shuffled inside, more than half asleep. Rowe slipped his 9mm into the back of his pants, hidden by a loose jacket, and showed his picture collection around what passed for the local business district. When he retired from the SEALs, his parting gift had been a license to carry. Today, he was happy to have it. A gas station attendant knew Al-Zahrawi. The owner of a gun shop said Hemren bought 9mm rounds twice from him. A waitress at a diner had served Al-Zahrawi and Goya, but not Matt, and no one recognized the Vitolska’s. Rowe was returning to the hotel when he got a call.
“Is this Zeke Rowe?”
“Matt. Change of heart?”
“Al-Zahrawi called. I’m supposed to distract the manager of the Best Western in West Coxsackie. He didn’t tell me why. Like I said, nothing illegal about talking to a guy—”
Rowe bolted for the Inn in his limp-sprint version of running. As he neared the building, a slight male brandishing a handgun fled out the front door, followed closely by a blonde with Matt Monroe’s build but the feline grace only military training bred.
“Gun!” Rowe bellowed and a round ricocheted off a trash can. Rowe returned fire, but over the gunman’s head. He needed him to talk, not die. Gun Boy shot again, this time hitting a parked car. Two teenagers shrieked and crawled under the chassis.
Rowe knew Gun Boy.
“Mr. Hemren—Police! Stop!” It didn’t slow Hemren and his fr
iend, but did frighten citizens into diving for cover. Rowe’s knees started to ache, but he charged on, past the parking lot to an open area maintained as a fire break between the hotel property and a sprawling industrial complex further north. If Hemren got into that maze, Rowe would never catch them.
“Laslo! Murder won’t help your sisters!” Rowe shouted as the pair zagged across the 87 off-ramp.
Rowe’s knees throbbed, mere moments from locking up. He slowed enough to put Laslo in his crosshairs and shot at the thick mass of his shoulders. The boy screamed and fell forward. When his partner turned to grab him, Rowe recognized the hawkish nose, domed forehead, and full sneering lips. Gunner Goya, aka Aleksei Borodnoi.
Rowe fired again, this time nicking Borodnoi’s ear. The burly Russian twisted around to face Rowe as though making a decision.
“Give up, Borodnoi! There’s nowhere to go!” He screamed as he speed dialed James.
“Bobby! Get a helicopter to the 9W north of the West Coxsackie Best Western. I’ve got—”
Pow!
“Borodnoi shot Hemren!”
Laslo collapsed and Borodnoi disappeared into the warren of tilt-up concrete warehouses. Rowe panted to a halt next to a white-faced Laslo. The shoulder wound from Rowe’s bullet was superficial, but Borodnoi struck the femoral artery, probably exactly where he intended. If Rowe didn’t help, Laslo would bleed to death.
“And I need an ambulance!”
Rowe ripped a strip of fabric from the tail of his shirt and applied a tourniquet around Hemren’s upper thigh. “What have you gotten yourself into, Laslo?” The boy’s face contorted in pain, and his chest heaved up and down in shallow waves.
“Save me, Dr. Rowe! Aleksei is crazy!”
The bleeding from Hemren’s leg slowed, but not enough. There was nothing Rowe could do other than put pressure on the wound. “I called for help. I’ll stay until it arrives. Tell me where Sean is, Laslo.”
The boy gripped Rowe’s lapels with a fierceness belied by the spreading pool of blood under his body. “I know the Plan! I tell you, promise to bring my sisters here, to America, where they can be teachers. I never wanted anyone killed. You must believe me.”
“Where’s Sean?” But Laslo gasped and passed out.
Rowe found IDs for Hemren, Hamar, and Fay in Laslo’s wallet, and a photo of three giggling teenage girls. Their eyes spoke of love and loyalty.
“You mistook terrorism for a game. Who will watch over your sisters now?”
By the time the ambulance reached Laslo Hemren, he was dead.
Rowe sprinted up the stairs to his room, the Inn’s manager huffing after him, but no Kali. “Where is the woman I came with?”
Before he could punctuate his question with a persuasive grip, her voice stuttered from the bathroom, shaky but alive.
“Zeke, I’m here. Did you catch them?”
Her presence ran through him like a beam of sunshine. He grabbed her to his chest and buried his face in her hair. “No. Borodnoi got away by killing Hemren.”
Kali sagged. “Laslo saved my life. He remembered I told him Otto would only work with my heartbeat and told Borodnoi. The Russian tried to grab me, but I locked myself in the bathroom. When you screamed, Borodnoi and Laslo fled.”
Rowe didn’t remember screaming, but was glad he had. He turned back to the still quivering manager and growled, “How did they get this room number?”
“We never give those out!” He blustered and wrapped a grease-stained tie around his fingers. “Someone did ask, so we called the room.”
Rowe crowded him. “Was it one of the men I chased?”
“No! Someone else, but I never got his n-name.”
“But if you saw his picture?”
“Yes! The desk clerk would recognize him!”
“Go collect everyone. Now!”
As he scurried away, Kali logged onto Rowe’s laptop, drilled through to her online security program, and wiped Otto’s drives.
“Now we find him.” When Rowe looked confused, she explained, “GPS is embedded in the motherboard. Even if Borodnoi destroys the hard drive, we can still find it. There.” A flag winked complete with a GPS tag.
“Tell James what happened, Kali. I’ll find Otto.”
Kali handed a card to the manager. “Call Special Agent James. Tell him what’s going on and don’t let anyone near these rooms.” She caught up with Rowe. When he glowered, she responded simply, “It’s my son.”
Rowe rolled his eyes. Kali had become a lot like Annie the last few days. Twenty minutes later, they found Otto in a dumpster. Rowe scratched his head.
“They steal your AI, kill their own man, and abandon the spoils. Why?” He reached into his pocket for a pencil but came up empty. “Someone tipped them off about the GPS.”
They answered in unison, “Wyn.”
Chapter 54
When Rowe got back to the Best Western, the manager was smiling and nodding to James as though a murder was a publicity event. He excused himself and walked briskly toward Rowe.
“Thank you for returning. I’ve explained the—the importance—of cooperation to my team.” His voice trailed off as he waved an arm across the assembled group of dour-faced employees. “I think you’ll find everyone… cooperative. Can I get you coffee?”
How did anyone trust this man with a multi-million dollar business? Rowe ignored him, turned to the bellhop.
“Do you remember these two men, Max?” He held out pictures of Borodnoi and Hemren.
“Yes, sir. This one,” indicating Hemren, “was nervous. He kept fingering his jacket. I was in the Army, a sergeant, so recognized the concealed weapon immediately. I know what an undercover cop looks like and he wasn’t one.”
“How did you know?”
Max thought a minute. “He acted hinky. You know?” Rowe didn’t know. He never used that word in SEAL intel, but Max didn’t wait for an answer. “I was about to call the Village police—the Captain over there is a friend—see if anyone matching Hemren’s description was on assignment when shots exploded.”
Rowe thanked Max and turned to the maid who let the men into Kali’s room. Before he could ask why, she blurted, “I didn’t do anything wrong. They forgot their key,” which brought a scowl to Max’s face. She flushed and said, “Lots of guests lose keys,” and then she broke down in tears. The manager glared at Rowe and rushed over to comfort her as Rowe approached the desk clerk. He picked Monroe out of a six pack as the one who distracted him so James dispatched an officer to pick the man up.
“He has a beautiful wife, a home in a nice neighborhood, and he throws it away? I don’t get it.”
Two hours later, FBI techs gone, James waved goodbye and Rowe went to his room. He hoped a handful of Bayer and a night’s rest would dull his throbbing knees, but that all changed when he found Kali in his bed.
“I can keep an eye on you better if I see you.”
The only clever retort Rowe could muster was, “I’ll brush my teeth.”
He scrubbed his teeth—twice—while reminding himself he was on a case and couldn’t get involved, all the while knowing if she beckoned, he’d do stupid. She was gorgeous and brilliant with glorious prospects. He was damaged, grumpy, and shackled to his past. He had no patience, judged people too quickly, with skills better suited to national emergencies than wooing a soulmate. If his future were a person, it would be wearing tattered clothes, muttering to itself, where Kali’s would be walking a red carpet.
He was more relieved than disappointed to find she’d fallen asleep.
He pulled a chair close enough to inhale her scent, his back pressed against the wall and a good view of the door. Her face showed none of the worry that must fill her thoughts. Finally, he fell into a light doze, just under the edge of awareness, hand on his weapon.
Tuesday
Kali awoke to the blare of her cell. She scrabbled blindly with one hand and finally answered, “What?”
“Dr. Rowe murdered one of my people, Ms. Delamagente
. That was a mistake.” Mr. Grant’s voice had the toneless quality of a man straining to cover true emotions. Traffic noises filled the background, a horn honking, someone cussing. He was in a city.
“Borodnoi killed Hemren, Mr. Grant, not Zeke, and he failed to steal Otto. That’s what you want, not Dr. Rowe, so I’ll make a deal with you.”
Rowe kicked her. When she glared at him, his eyes were fiery, mouth a tight line bracketed by anger. Last night, she’d tried to put her son ahead of duty, but fell asleep. Rowe had been a gentleman and slept in the chair, which made her wonder what else she misjudged about him.
Part of her wished he’d awakened her. She ached to be held, to be told everything would be OK.
“Trade Sean for me. And Otto.”
“An eye for an eye, Ms. Delamagente. Someone must die. Dr. Rowe? Catherine Stockbury? Your son?”
Kali’s cool veneer cracked. “You already killed Annie—” she retorted, but he was gone.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rowe’s posture was rigid, eyes drilling into her.
She didn’t have time for his machismo. “Let’s take what we have to Eitan.”
As they drove south, neither said a word. What had been a comfortable silence on the way up, today was brittle. Each step forward moved them back and she was tired of it. To her, this was simple: Get Sean. No prioritizing, moral qualms, or academic politics.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift. Yesterday, she dismissed the possibility Otto could locate her son, but her subconscious had relentlessly worked on the question. Now, the world quiet save the old Benz’s hum, the rumble of wheels over asphalt, and Rowe’s warm confidence one foot away, she figured it out.
She opened her laptop and started programming.
Felix Whitetower had the prominent cheekbones of his Native American ancestors and the leathery skin of an outdoor life. He was clean shaven, with an ebony ponytail that reached below his shoulder blades. His cousin the hairdresser cut it back to his collar whenever she visited, which had now been six months. He wore a rugged canvas shirt over blue Dickies and Timberland hiking boots. The Department covered part of the boots’ cost and Felix the rest. He was on his feet all day and figured he should be comfortable.
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