“We think the work Rich is doing will be a real breakthrough, but he says they’ve been having security problems. He brought in a new firm to tighten up security, and now this. He’s worried the death of his secretary and the security problems could mean the end of top secret projects he’s been awarded. I’m worried about the loss of the technology he’s capable of developing for us.”
What did the Senator think he could do about his friend’s problem, Drake wondered.
“Why do you think Martin can’t trust the police to handle this? They’ve done good work on cases like this. They’ll find out who killed his secretary.”
The Senator turned and leaned against the terrace half wall. He appeared to have expected the question, but also appeared to be undecided about how to answer it.
“Adam, Homeland Security would like to keep this matter out of the news as much as possible if this turns out to have something to do with national security. We also don’t want to blow the whistle too early and call in the FBI. The Secretary of Homeland Security is a friend. I chair his oversight committee. I suggested that you take a look first. You have the background to know if there’s more to this than a homicide.”
Drake knew the Senator wasn’t referring to his experience as a prosecutor.
“You’ve seen my military records?”
“When I saw Kay was serious about you, I checked out your background. There were missing years after you graduated law school. You passed the bar exam two days after 9/11, so I thought you might have enlisted. The Army said there was no record of you ever being in the service. So I pulled a few strings. When I saw your file, I understood why it wasn’t initially provided to me. Delta Force personnel records don’t officially exist.”
At least it had taken a senior U.S. Senator to get his records, Drake thought. His training, his missions, were not for public consumption. America didn’t want to know how it was able to sleep soundly in a troubled world. Its warriors knew, but they were forbidden to tell.
“Does your friend know my background?” Drake asked.
“No, it’s not something he needs to know. If you’re concerned, it’s not something Meredith or I share with anyone. We’re proud of the way you served and the sacrifices you made. But there are things some people will never understand, and don’t ever need to know.”
“Did you share my file with Kay?”
“No, we didn’t. We felt that was something you would do, if you felt it was necessary.”
Drake nodded his thanks and looked out over the lake and the lights beginning to twinkle across the way. Kay had known there were secret places in his soul that he hadn’t shared. She’d never pushed, waiting for him to open up. He had wanted to tell her about the army, how he idolized his father, memorized “Fighting soldiers from the sky, fearless men who jump and die” from the lyrics of “The Ballad of the Green Beret” as a young boy, and hated that his father wouldn’t be around to pin silver wings on his chest. How proud he was when he was invited to selection and survived to become a member of Delta Force. He’d wanted to tell her all of it, but had never found the right time before she died.
“All right. I’ll talk to your friend and help him if I can. If this involves more than theft and murder, I want your promise you’ll call in the troops. I’m not going to play Lone Ranger on this.”
He didn’t resent the Senator asking for his help, but if the reason centered more on his military training than his legal skills, the two of them were headed for trouble. Politicians had a habit of getting soldiers into trouble, eager to stick their noses in someone’s mess and then not being around when things got rough.
Chapter 4
“Let’s walk down to the boathouse before Martin gets here,” the Senator said, changing the subject as he led them off the rear deck.
Drake knew what the Senator had in mind. Before she’d left them alone, Meredith warned him her husband would try to slip off and have a cigar.
“If he starts inhaling, you tell him to stop. He’s stopped smoking cigarettes behind my back, but he hasn’t gotten over his love of cigars. The doctor and I will put an end to this if he doesn’t,” Meredith said.
When they reached the dock beside the boathouse, the Senator took a Hemingway Short Story from his pocket, clipped off the tip, and lit it with a silver lighter. When it burned evenly, he smiled at Drake.
“I imagine Meredith warned you to keep an eye on my smoking. She pretends she doesn’t know what I’m doing, and I pretend I never inhale. She’s better off not knowing everything. Like, how you’ve been doing lately. How’s your practice?”
Several boats were out on the lake, and Drake smelled steaks being grilled somewhere. He was drinking too much and letting his work slide, but he thought no one had noticed. His marvelous secretary was skilled at covering for him.
“If you phrase the question that way, you probably know.”
“I practiced law for fifteen years before I entered politics. I still know lawyers here. No one blames you for losing your focus after Kay died, but your friends don’t want you to get in trouble because of it. I don’t either.”
Drake focused on a boat passing by. Its wake slapped against the side of the dock, like the nightly memories that pummeled his mind.
“Senator, I’m okay. A little depressed at times but Margo, my secretary, keeps things running. I won’t let my clients down, don’t worry.”
“Son, I’m not worried about your clients, I worry about you. You let me know if there’s something you need help with. I mean that. This thing with Rich Martin is important, don’t get me wrong, but you’re more important. I just need to know if I can count on you bringing your A game.
“I’ll let Richard Martin tell you what he’s working on when he gets here. You’ve probably guessed my interests are a little broader than his. The Secretary of Homeland Security is visiting next week to dedicate the chemical weapons disposal facility at the Umatilla Depot. He will also pay Martin Research a visit. I want to make sure Martin’s project hasn’t been compromised and the Secretary’s visit isn’t upstaged by this murder.”
So that was it. A little worry about his son-in-law, but a bigger worry about a defense project and a Cabinet member’s visit being upstaged. He had been mildly flattered for a moment, being asked to help the Senator’s friend. Now he was mildly angered.
“Concern noted. Keep the Secretary’s visit on the front page and Martin’s dead secretary off, for the good of the country. Your friend must be here, we’re being summoned,” Drake said, breaking the beginning of an awkward silence when his mother-in-law waved from the terrace.
Standing on the terrace next to Meredith was a man perhaps ten years younger than the Senator, and better tanned. A little less than six feet tall, he looked like tennis was probably his game. Trim, in gray slacks, a light blue button-down shirt and a yellow tie loose at his neck, the man looked like someone in shock, unfamiliar with violence and death.
“Richard,” the Senator called out, as they stepped onto the terrace, “this is my son-in-law, Adam Drake. He’s the attorney I wanted you to meet. Let me get you a drink while I walk Meredith inside.”
Left alone, Richard Martin shook hands with Drake without speaking. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders slumped.
“Your father-in-law thinks highly of you, but I don’t need an attorney,” Martin said.
“You’ve dealt with murder investigations and security problems that threaten your company?”
When Martin answered him with a silent stare, Drake continued.
“I’ve prosecuted cases like this, dealt with the police and managed the press. I know what you’re in for. You could use someone to help manage the situation. I can help if you want. Or, you can do it and run your company at the same time. The Senator is trying to help, but I don’t particularly care, one way or the other.”
Martin shoved his hands in his pockets and dropped his chin to his chest.
“Janice Lewellyn was the nicest per
son I’ve ever known. She worked for me from the start-up of the company and never asked for anything. Everyone loved her. I can’t begin to explain this to her husband and children. We had the best security we could afford, and she’s still dead.”
Drake stepped beside him and looked across the lake, following Martin’s unfocused gaze.
“I lost my wife a year ago today. Things get turned upside down when you lose someone. The Senator wants to make sure you have someone to help you through this, that’s all. Any idea why this happened?”
“No idea,” Martin answered. “Looking for something in my office, I guess. But there’s nothing missing. All of our research is on the main computer, completely secure.”
“Anything in your office that might be of value to anyone?”
“Not a thing. The police think this was a burglary, but other than computers and stuff, there’s nothing anyone could quickly sell.”
“You said you had the best security you could afford. How did someone break in?” Drake asked.
“We don’t know. We’ve had vandalism a couple of times. After we landed the DHS contract, we had to upgrade our security. I hired a new company. They’re supposed to be the best in the business, certainly the most expensive. They revamped our whole system. Even they don’t know how the killer got in.”
“If you want my help, I’m willing to step in, as your attorney. I’ll deal with the police. They’ll want to take up a lot of your time, and I’ll deal with that. I could visit tomorrow, if you want.”
Martin continued to look out over the lake, then nodded his agreement as the Senator walked out and put an arm around Martin’s shoulders.
“Richard, you could use a decent night’s sleep. Why don’t you head home? Let us help you with this tomorrow. You have a tough week ahead of you.”
Martin didn’t argue and said goodbye, with a little wave of his hand, before he allowed the Senator to walk him to his car.
The dinner was subdued, despite their best efforts to talk about everything except the empty chair across the table. Drake thanked Meredith for preparing his favorite paella, told the Senator he’d call him after he visited Martin Research, and headed home.
Kay had fallen in love with a run-down vineyard and an old stone farmhouse in Dundee, the heart of Oregon’s wine country, and had convinced him to make it their first home. A retired orthodontist from New Jersey had grown tired of farming grapes and sold the vineyard. The farmhouse needed a lot of work, but it was home.
In twenty minutes, he drove beyond the suburbs of Portland into wine country and the wineries dotting the gentle western slopes of the Willamette Valley. The region was magical to him. Its rows of grape vines, undulating over rolling hills of red earth, and the year-round white peak of Mount Hood in the distance surpassed anything Napa Valley had to offer.
Tomorrow, he’d go for a long run with his dog, then try to help the struggling CEO.
Chapter 5
Twenty miles to the north, in an upscale condo in the Pearl District of Portland, Kaamil paced, looking out onto a small terrace. He had a call he did not want to make. Jazz playing on his Continuum Audio turntable system didn’t help to calm his nerves. Expensive things and good music only helped when you weren’t afraid.
The keylogger he retrieved last night from Richard Martin’s computer did provide next week’s password. He confirmed that no changes had been made to the security system at the chemical depot. He did what he was asked to do, but killing Martin’s secretary would still be counted against him.
The man he was about to call gave him nightmares. He had seen men killed before, shot several himself, but the images of men beheaded by this man still haunted his mind. Two or three strikes with a sword and the screaming stopped. Sawing with a knife to finish the job was bloody, but the victim was quiet by then. It was what followed that scared him. The man’s eyes turned red, blood red, as the capillaries in his eyes exploded with the pleasure of killing.
The man was older now, and looked like any other successful western CEO, but Kaamil knew a raging fire of hatred burned in the man’s heart. He was, without a doubt, the West’s worst nightmare.
It was nine o’clock, and the call had to be made before nine thirty. The leader lived in Las Vegas and, despite all its distractions, still followed a rigid prayer discipline which included Eshaa, the evening prayer.
Kaamil wasn’t as disciplined and poured himself a second tumbler of Scotch before walking to his study. He entered the number for the day, on a disposable cell phone, and tried to slow his heart rate. Any sign of weakness, any sign of hurried speech or unclear thinking would be noticed. The man was uncanny in his ability to detect deception.
When the connection was made, he sat forward in his chair and prepared to report on last night’s event.
“Kaamil, my brother, I am worried. I thought I would hear from you last night.”
“I’m sorry, Malik. I wanted to make sure of something before I called,” Kaamil explained.
“Like how close the police are to finding out who killed that woman? Is that what you wanted to make sure of before you called me? Or were you hoping I wouldn’t hear of your failure before you worked out your excuses?”
“Malik, please, killing the woman was a mistake, but it couldn’t be avoided. I had no way of knowing she’d return that evening.”
“Did you consider having someone outside, to warn you? Of course not, or you wouldn’t have been surprised. Is there any evidence you were there?”
“No. I wore surgical gloves, and the surveillance system was turned off. There’s nothing that could identify me. I took precautions.”
“Except for posting a lookout. Were you able to verify the current password?”
“Yes, nothing has changed in the security system at the depot. We’re okay.”
“Make sure that we are. Also, make sure the investigation of the woman’s murder doesn’t get close to you. A third mistake would be your last,” Malik said, ending the call.
Kaamil wiped off his fingerprints and dropped the cell phone in his briefcase to be thrown away. If Malik counted two mistakes against him already, he couldn’t afford another. His old football coach used to say, “Son, if you can’t carry the ball without losing it, I’ll find someone who can.” In the game he was playing now, benching would be more permanent than the old coach ever contemplated.
Chapter 6
Drake opened his eyes at five o’clock with Lancer, his five-year-old German shepherd, licking his face. It was time for their morning run. He threw his arm around the neck of his companion. Time to get back to their old routine. He had to meet Richard Martin, and a good run would get his blood flowing for the day.
“Lancer, old buddy, I know you think I’m going to be an easy mark this morning, but I might surprise you. If I do, you get dried dog food and I get breakfast out. How about that?” he asked his tail-wagging dog.
He pulled on his running gear, laced up his Nikes, and followed his dog. Lancer had been trained for protection dog competition since he was six months old, and was the best in Oregon. One-hundred-ten pounds of obedient aggression, Lancer was a perfect companion. Except on early mornings when Lancer was ready to run and he wasn’t.
“All right you masochist, let’s get it on,” Drake said, opening the laundry room door onto the back porch.
Stepping off the porch, Drake stretched his hamstrings, breathed deeply, and began jogging along the brick walkway to the unfinished winery parking area behind his house. Tall fir trees stood behind the winery building that now served as a shop and garage for Drake’s Porsche and Kay’s Range Rover LR3. The surrounding vineyards filled the air with the scent of green lushness. Early in the morning, you could even smell summer lavender.
From the paved parking area, he followed Lancer down the long gravel driveway that ran along the southern border of the farm, down to Worden Road. At the bottom of the driveway, they turned north for two miles of steady uphill climbing before heading east
toward the small city of Newberg. Then they ran downhill, past farmland not yet planted and young vineyards still maturing, until they reached Worden Road again and headed back to the farm.
Drake ran sluggishly after his dog, a tan reminder of better morning runs. It looked like breakfast was on him again, he thought, as they turned back up the driveway of his farm. Time to get back in shape.
Fixing breakfast for Lancer was easy. The dog enjoyed anything Drake fed him. His own breakfast was more of a problem. Nothing he fixed lately had any taste. The usual scrambled eggs with bacon, marmalade and toast tasted like sawdust. Maybe it was time to pay a visit to his friend at the Black Walnut Inn to see if their gourmet breakfast offerings would taste better.
After a quick protein drink, shower, and shave, Drake left for Martin Research, driving north. The sound of the Porsche’s restrained whine begged him to unleash the car’s power, but he didn’t need another speeding ticket to distract him before meeting his new client.
The thought of a new client reminded him to call his secretary. Punching the speed dial on his dash-mounted cell phone, he waited to see what mood she was in this morning.
“Law office. Wondered when you’d call. Kind of got used to you keeping in touch and all. When I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I assumed you were dead. So, I accepted a job with your enemy, that guy from the Public Defender’s office. He wants to pay me big money to learn the secret of your past wins. Back when you were an attorney that gave a damn, and had some wins. How are you this morning, boss?”
Drake resigned himself to her mood. She was the person closest to him, next to his wife, and he hadn’t told her where he was going yesterday.
“Good morning, Margo. Thought I called the wrong number and got someone’s secretary dealing with a bad case of PMS. Until I recognized your voice, and realized you must be upset because there weren’t any billable hours yesterday.”
Drake heard her swallow her anger, almost.
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