“You should also know that Barry Rosemont, the reporter Frank Cardenas told us about, was also murdered, and his partner is still at large. The gun that killed the two men was left at the scene, but the knife that cut Hackett’s hamstrings is missing. The detective in charge will meet us at the airport, fill in the details, and walk us through the crime scene. But the gun is the same caliber—nine millimeter—as the firearm that killed the Hoffmans. And,” he added, “same bullet casings.”
“What did—”
Hans interrupted. “We need to leave.”
“Jack can fly us. It’ll be faster, especially during morning commute time—”
“Ask him.”
She paused. Did Hans know Jack was in her room? “Okay. What about Rosemont’s partner? He just skipped out?”
“No sign of the partner at all. We don’t know if Rose-mont or the UNSUB killed Hackett, but it’s clear that Rosemont was murdered. The police are going through all security tapes and are interviewing staff and guests. We’ll know more when we get there.”
“But—” She felt Jack behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
“Thirty minutes, meet me in the lobby.”
“Yes, but—”
He hung up before she could say anything else.
“What?” Jack asked, massaging her muscles.
“Barry Rosemont. He’s one of the killers, apparently.” She turned and faced Jack. “I’m so sorry. About this, about your friend, Scout. And General Hackett, he’s also dead. We couldn’t warn him in time. I feel awful.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Hans is still mad at me. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s not acting like himself. And we still don’t know who Rosemont’s partner is.”
“Maybe by the time we land in Santa Barbara the police will have answers.”
“I hope so. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m part of this until the end. You know that, right?”
She nodded. “We’re leaving in thirty minutes and I need to shower—”
“We need to shower.” He kissed her. Her lips were sore from last night’s passion, but his caress was gentle, kind, loving. He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. “Thirty minutes should be just enough time.”
On the way to the airport, Hans was in front with the taxi driver, talking quietly on his cell phone. Megan had hoped that because she and Hans were working together on the case, he had rethought his comments from the night before, but if his icy reception this morning was any indication, he was in a worse mood now. Any other time she would have called him on it, but he wasn’t himself so she tread lightly.
Jack squeezed her knee. He leaned over and was about to say something when Megan’s cell phone beeped, indicating a high-priority e-mail. She glanced at it. “It’s from my office.” She opened the e-mail and added, “It’s about the van in Sacramento.”
She skimmed the report. “It was wiped down with Clorox Clean-Up. Bleach. There were bloodstains, but they were contaminated. No prints so far, but they’re still going through it. However, there was a pair of shoes in the middle of the back of the van. Worn sneakers with blood. It’s our John Doe’s blood.” She tapped Hans on the shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
Hans turned, and pointed to the cell phone he held to his ear. She leaned back and sighed. “So we know where he was tortured, and they found two long, thin needles that appear to match the marks on the body. They sent one to the morgue for verification.”
“And nothing else?”
“No.”
Hans was on the phone the entire drive to the airport, and finally shut it off when Jack was taxiing the plane for take-off.
“That was Rick Stockton,” he said.
“And?”
“The Orlando field office is reviewing all the evidence in the Russo murder and will get back to me. He also pulled the Russo interview from CNN and ordered a transcript, which will be e-mailed to us as soon as they get it. But it was pretty much an apology for screwing up a mission. Russo took the blame. Or, as Rick said, he shared the blame with the whole team.”
“Prick,” Jack said.
Sitting behind, Hans didn’t respond.
“What do you think happened in Afghanistan?” Jack asked Hans.
“I don’t know.”
“I can tell you that Frank Cardenas doesn’t lie. If he said the reporter jeopardized the mission, then the reporter jeopardized the mission.”
“Soldiers tend to support each other,” Hans said. “When one speaks out—”
“They usually have an ax to grind,” Jack interrupted. “We take care of our problems internally. We don’t share them on Oprah.”
“A lot of good your internal solutions have been.”
“Your point?”
“The military is notorious for covering up failed missions. This time, they couldn’t.”
“You’re not going to get an argument from me on that one,” Jack said, “but failed missions are caused by many things, and leading the failures is bad intelligence, followed by assholes in public office who think they can run a battle from behind a desk and jerks like General Hackett who want to stroke the media and open our missions like a ride at Disneyland.”
“Hackett’s dead,” Hans said coldly.
“I’m sorry he’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he was right.”
“Hans,” Megan interjected from the co-pilot’s seat, not liking the direction the conversation was going, “can we get Rosemont’s medical records? Anything the military has? He must have been debriefed, hospitalized, maybe on medication.”
“The military isn’t going to share—it’s most likely classified. Rick already put in the request yesterday when we got his name, but doesn’t expect them to be forthcoming. As far as medical records, we need a warrant.”
“We should be able to get one,” Megan said. “There could be something important there.”
“I’ll make sure it’s put in. But it’s not going to bring Hackett or the Hoffmans back to life.”
“What is going on with you?” Megan demanded, turning around in her seat so she could face Hans. They were thousands of feet above the earth; no way he could avoid her this time. “You’re testy and snide and being an asshole.”
He glared at her, face hard, eyes unreadable. “I don’t have to answer to you, Agent Elliott. The only reason you’re on this plane to Santa Barbara is because Rick Stockton didn’t agree with me that you fucked up. But he’s looking into it so don’t think you’re in the clear yet.”
Megan turned away from Hans and blinked back the threatening tears. She didn’t know what to say; what could she say? His reaction to her wrong assumption about the victim in Sacramento was over the top. Something else had to have happened, and it was obvious Hans wasn’t going to tell her. Did he tell Rick? Was there something he wasn’t saying?
Did Hans know about her and Jack? Did he think she’d been unprofessional? Maybe she had been. It wasn’t like she’d planned to have sex with Jack Kincaid. And she didn’t regret it. She hadn’t jeopardized the case, or slept with a witness or suspect. Jack was essentially a civilian consultant. Hans thought she screwed up the case, that was it. But she couldn’t talk to him about it now. He wasn’t open to anything she said.
She saw her best friendship disintegrating and she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
Santa Barbara Detective Grant Holden was in his early forties and reminded Meg of the blond cop from the classic show Adam-12. After introductions, he drove them to the hotel and filled them in on the double homicide.
“The chief of the forensic unit is handling the evidence himself. He’s methodical and in my opinion the best in the state. You’ll want to talk to him when we get there; he can walk you through the crime scene. Frankly, the whole thing is a circus.”
“A circus?” Megan asked. She was in the back of the car, Hans was in the front. Jack stayed at the airport and said he’d take a cab—he needed to
arrange to have Scout’s plane refueled.
“Media is all over it.”
“How’d they find out?”
“Police scanners. Hotel staff and guests. But it’s not that they’re simply on scene reporting a murder at the resort—they know Barry Rosemont is the Hamstring Killer.”
“That’s not good.”
“We think the info came from Hackett’s widow, but how can we accuse her right now?”
“Good point.”
“Because it leaked out, we decided to use it to our advantage. We’ve released a photograph of Rosemont to the media and have asked anyone who believes they have seen him in the last forty-eight hours to contact my office. We’re hoping if a witness comes forward he or she can describe Rosemont’s accomplice.”
Megan said, “Good. Let us know how we can help get the word out.”
“I do have more information than I had earlier this morning when I spoke with you, Agent Vigo,” Holden said. “Apparently, Hackett was getting chummy with a woman last night in the bar.”
Both Megan and Hans turned to Holden. “A woman?” they said simultaneously. Megan added, “Brunette?”
“Blond. Attractive, late thirties to late forties. Not a registered guest.”
“Name?”
“The bartender who worked last night is on his way to meet us at the resort. He’s the only one who talked to her.”
“What about the crime scene?” Hans asked. “You said the room was registered to Ethan Rose, but the manager identified Barry Rosemont as the individual who reserved the room and paid.”
“Correct.”
“And he came in alone?”
“Yes. We’ve been looking at the security footage and have seen Rosemont on tape only briefly—when he registered he entered through the main entrance. Yesterday early afternoon, one thirty-seven p.m. Alone. Asked specifically for a cabin on the beach. They weren’t going to rent it to him because they were booked for the weekend, but he wanted it only one night. Said he was passing through.”
“Driver’s license?”
“Ethan Rose. We found his false identification. Quality fake. He also had an expired New York driver’s license under the name Barry Ethan Rosemont, which we’ve learned is his real name. His prints came back as Barry Ethan Rosemont. Criminal record. He’d been arrested while a student at Berkeley, eighteen years ago.”
“For what?”
“Breaking and entering. He was working for the student newspaper and broke into the security office to pull reports of rape that had been filed by students. He was doing an exposé of the administration covering up on-campus assaults. Charges were dropped.”
“Did he run the story?” Megan asked, curious.
“Not that we know.”
Hans said, “Any leads on Rosemont’s partner?”
Holden shook his head. “Nothing so far. We’ve dusted the entire room, printed the staff, and are going through every guest methodically. So far, nothing. But there’s a lot to process. Extensive blood, spatter, angles. We’re still not exactly sure what happened. Ian, our chief forensics guru, can walk you through the evidence when we get there.”
He turned the sedan into the resort. He wasn’t kidding—the place was crawling with media. Every major and minor California television and radio station insignia was visible, plus two national news stations.
“Nobody’s talking to them, right?” Hans asked.
“Just our PIO, completely scripted,” Holden assured him. “I’ve threatened everyone else with bodily injury or working the next ten major holidays.”
“And the needles?” Hans asked. “You said you found a black bag with a couple hundred acupuncture needles.”
“Yes. I have no idea what Rosemont had planned. There were also two knives, but neither one had been used on Hackett.”
“How did the killer escape?” Megan asked. “He killed his partner and ran? Doesn’t the hotel have security?”
“Three minutes and forty seconds passed between the first report of gunfire until the head of security arrived at the crime scene. The report of a gunshot was probably a minute or two delayed. It wasn’t until after the final gunshot that someone called in. Plenty of time to escape.”
“Someone had to see something,” Megan said. “It’s a hotel.”
“Resort,” Holden corrected as he stopped the car. “One hotel with two hundred rooms and forty individual cabins along the beach. All the cabins have sliding glass doors, and the unit in question has doors that open right onto the beach. They were unlocked, and a few drops of blood were found on the small patio. The killer most certainly escaped that way.”
“With all the blood in the room, the killer would have stepped in it,” Megan said. “Any footprints?”
“Possibly—you should talk to Ian Clark about that.” He opened the door. “Ready?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
While the Cessna Caravan was being fueled, Jack called Padre. He didn’t want his friend to hear about General Hackett or Barry Rosemont from the media or anyone else. He was also concerned about Megan. He didn’t want her to have professional trouble because she’d adhered to an agreement she wasn’t even party to. She could have arrested Price and turned him over to local police. She could have had the local FBI pick him up at the bar or called CID with his last-known whereabouts. That she had done none of those things because she promised she wouldn’t, even when facing intense pressure from Hans Vigo, told Jack that she had a backbone of steel and an inherent sense of loyalty to match any among Jack’s team of soldiers.
Padre got on the phone. “Did you meet up with Price?”
“Yeah. He gave us what we needed. But I wasn’t calling you about him.”
“You sound grim.”
“The reporter, Barry Rosemont, killed General Hackett last night.”
“I know.” Padre’s voice was flat.
“You know?”
“It’s all over the morning news. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”
“I’m still at the airport fueling. So you know Rose-mont is dead?”
“And there’s a chance that another unidentified killer is on the loose. Yeah, I know all about it.”
“And you’re okay?”
Padre said nothing for a long minute, then, “It’s hard.”
Jack didn’t have to ask Padre what he meant. Priests had to act like forgiveness was a given. And sometimes it wasn’t. Even for men of God.
“Why didn’t he kill me?”
Jack almost didn’t hear him, Padre spoke so quietly.
“I don’t know,” Jack said, also quietly. “Maybe you did something five years ago that made him not blame you.”
“I was a different man then, Jack.”
“Not as different as you think.”
“If anyone should have been spared, based on how he treated Rosemont, it would have been Duane Johnson. He was the only one who stood up for the kid. Not me. I told him he was our albatross.”
The regret in Padre’s voice was thick.
“It was Rosemont’s choice to kill,” Jack said. “Maybe he felt it was too risky to go after you so soon after what he did to Scout. Maybe he had another insane reason for killing Hackett next. But it’s over.”
“What about his partner? Any leads?”
“Not that I know of, but I’m heading over to the hotel in a few minutes and I’ll find out. Be careful, Padre. I need you alive and well when I return to Hidalgo. If Rosemont’s partner is going to finish this twisted game, you may be next. What about the sketch? Did the Rangers send over a sketch artist?”
“She arrived an hour ago, but I have a funeral Mass at one—in fact, I need to prepare, the family will be here in a few minutes.”
“As soon as you’re done, send it to both me and Megan. And watch your back. Both Tim and Mike are there, right?”
“Yes. We’re fine.”
“I’ll feel better when I’m back there.”
“When is that?
There have been inquiries about your services. One of the major charities in Belize wants escorts when they take a Habitat for Humanity group out to a remote village next month.”
Jack had put his business on hold this week, but he hadn’t had a choice. Now he did. Rosemont was dead; he could go back to Hidalgo right now if he wanted. Nothing was holding him here—except Megan and Rosemont’s murderous partner.
He’d become a glorified chauffeur—flying the feds around instead of driving them. While they might have needed him at first to help with the military angle, it was clear now that his expertise wasn’t in demand.
While Megan had proven she could take care of herself, she was facing an enemy capable of taking down Delta-trained soldiers. Rosemont was dead; his killer was even more ruthless. Jack was concerned about Megan’s safety.
“You still there, Jack?”
“Tim can take any job he wants as long as he brings in an appropriate team,” Jack said, “but I’m taking a week.” Jack would take as much time as Megan needed.
“A week?”
“I’ll keep in touch. Watch your back, Padre. We don’t know what’s going on here.” He hung up.
Megan hadn’t asked him to protect her, and she’d probably tell him she didn’t need a bodyguard. Maybe she didn’t. But Jack wasn’t taking any chances. She was part of his life now, and he took care of what was his.
Dr. Ian Clark was a short, cerebral-looking middle-aged forensic expert with little hair and Coke-bottle glasses that doubled the size of his blue eyes, which Megan found disconcerting.
“Put on booties and gloves,” he demanded. “We’re not done.”
Megan slipped on the protective gear and surveyed the room. The bodies hadn’t been removed, but Dr. Clark was bagging the second victim. Two technicians were collecting trace evidence. Another tech came out of the bathroom with two paper bags, one in each hand, and passed by Megan without acknowledgment. A fourth tech was outside studying the sliding glass door.
The resort beachfront cabin was one large room, comfortably sized, with a king-sized bed, desk, and sitting area with two love seats. A refrigerator was under the desk, and a small bathroom and closet were to the right of the entrance.
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