The Assassin's list

by Scott Matthews

  There was something he was missing. He just couldn’t grab hold of it. He left the office early to think, trying to get away from the emotion numbing everyone at Martin Research, and returned home to walk his golden retriever, Copper. The mile-and-a-half walk with his tail-wagging companion hadn’t helped much though.

  His small bungalow in the upscale Orenco Station community was warm and professionally decorated, but it was just a place to live. He had retired from the Palo Alto police force after twenty-five years with a ruined marriage. Then he had been hired by his brother-in-law to make sure Martin Research and its employees were safe. In that he had failed.

  Newman gave his dog fresh water, poured himself a double Smirnoff on the rocks and settled into his leather chair to watch the recorded video of his San Francisco Giants playing the Arizona Diamondbacks. Four to nothing, top of the sixth. He needed to see someone winning, because he sure as hell didn’t feel like a winner at the moment.

  He kept going back to his conversation with Drake, the attorney Martin had hired for crisis management. It didn’t make sense that ISIS employed felons, but that’s what his experience told him they were doing. He’d run all the background checks and found nothing. The men he suspected had clean records, but he didn’t believe any of it for a minute. Prison changes men, and these men had the look of hard-time criminals.

  Newman had pushed himself up out of his chair to refill his drink when he heard Copper bark and then whimper. His subconscious mind replayed the moment, identified the sound of a silenced pistol, then signaled danger just as a hooded man stepped from the kitchen in front of him. The 9mm Glock aimed between his eyes didn’t waver when the man motioned with his other hand to back up.

  “Return to your chair, Mr. Newman, we need to talk.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not used to talking with someone wearing a hood and holding a gun on me.”

  “I apologize for the hood,” the man said, pulling it off. “I’m afraid the gun stays.”

  When Newman looked into the man’s eyes, he knew this was not going to be a friendly chat.

  “Put your tumbler down on the table and sit back in your chair. I’ll get your drink refreshed, and we’ll talk. Mohammed, pour Mr. Newman another double.”

  Two men walked from his kitchen, one taking up station at his front door and the other picking up his tumbler and returning to the kitchen. Both men wore black masks, jeans and black T-shirts.

  “What do you want?” Newman asked quietly.

  “Tell me about the attorney, Drake. What’d ya tell him?”

  “Are you the one who killed Martin’s secretary? Is this what this is all about?”

  “No man, this ain’t what this about. This about you feeling sorry for killing that secretary, then killing yourself. We just want to know what you got that attorney thinking about first.”

  Knowledge isn’t always power, but Newman felt better knowing he knew his killers were from ISIS.

  “I got him thinking you ex-cons from ISIS were somehow involved. When you kill me, he’ll know for sure.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. A suicide and a note on your computer may make him think you’re just one drunk old pig that sold out and couldn’t live with it. Time will tell. Make it easy on yourself, old man, finish your drink. We got to be going.”

  Newman set his drink down and breathed deeply. He wasn’t going to get out of this. If he could force them to shoot him, it wouldn’t look like suicide. He started to bolt from his chair when hands grabbed him and forced him back. His head was pulled back and the bottle of Smirnoff was forced between his lips. As he struggled and gagged on the vodka, he prayed Drake would figure out it wasn’t suicide.

  He felt the barrel of the pistol push against his right temple.

  Chapter 13

  Drake finished dictating responses to phone messages for Margo to return, and punched her number on his desk console.

  “Margo, would you dial Sam Newman again? If he’s not there, go ahead and get Richard Martin for me.”

  In the time it took Drake to pull out a legal pad and make some notes about what he had learned, Margo rang back. Newman was still not answering his home phone and Mr. Martin was on line two.

  “Richard, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Have you seen Sam Newman recently? I tried to reach him at home, but he’s not there.”

  “Sam left an email saying he was going home to get some sleep. Didn’t you talk with him this morning?”

  “I did, and then I paid a visit to your security firm. I was told to take a look at Sam Newman if I wanted to know who had a reason to turn off the security system. You know what that might mean?”

  “It means someone’s blowing smoke up your skirt, trying to impugn Sam Newman. I hired Sam personally. I know his background, his personal story and why he’s here in Oregon. Sam has no reason to do anything that would hurt this company.”

  “Why are you so sure about Sam Newman?”

  “Because he’s my brother-in-law. I hired him after my sister got tired of the hours he worked and divorced him. I’ve known Sam Newman for twenty years. Money’s not important to him, and he loved working here.”

  “So you think he’s just sleeping and not answering his phone?”

  “He might be sleeping, that’s what he said he was going to do. It’s not like him, not answering his phone. More likely, he couldn’t sleep and is out trying to find out who killed my secretary.”

  “All right, I’ll keep trying to find him. Thanks for the information.”

  Drake hung up and asked Margo to get Detective Carson on the phone.

  “Carson here.”

  “Anything new your investigation has turned up?”

  “Hell Drake, I thought you were going to solve this one for me. I took a long lunch and just been waiting for you to call.”

  “Sounds like your work habits haven’t changed much. I’m following up on something and need to talk with Sam Newman. Have you seen him recently?”

  “Not since this morning, but then I do have more than one case to work on and may have missed him. You remember how it is to be busy, don’t you counselor?”

  “What I remember is how busy I was cleaning up your messes. That’s what I remember, but thanks for all your help anyway.”

  “Anytime. I have to ask Newman some questions myself. If I see him, I’ll try to remember to have him call you.”

  When Drake broke the connection, Detective Carson shouted to the homicide division’s one secretary to get Sam Newman from Martin Research on the phone, pronto. He didn’t know what Drake was up to, but this was his investigation and there was no way he was going to let Drake get in his way.

  “Sorry, sir. Martin Research says he’s gone home to get some sleep.”

  “Well, then call him at home. Did I tell you to quit trying after just one call? Jesus, do I have to come out there and do your job for you?”

  Detective Carson sat fuming about the quality of his support staff when his phone rang again. Sam Newman wasn’t answering his home phone. He slammed down the phone, grabbed his coat and stormed out to find Sam Newman.

  The drive to Orenco Station took less than ten minutes in the afternoon traffic. Newman’s house was in the middle of the block on NE 64th Ave., a brown two-story bungalow with a Chevy Trail Blazer parked on the street. Carson was mildly impressed. Orenco Station was where his last wife had wanted to live.

  Carson rang the doorbell twice without an answer, then banged on the door.

  “Newman, police. Wake up, open the door!”

  When there was no answer, Carson tried the door and found it was open.

  “Newman, Detective Carson. We talked this morning. You in there? I’m coming in.”

  Carson walked into Sam Newman’s home and knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. The old cop was sitting in his leather recliner with a.45 on the floor below his right hand. An empty tumbler was on the floor below his left hand. He was dead, no question. Blood and brain matter was on
the wall and sofa to his left.

  In the kitchen, Carson found an empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka sitting on the granite-topped cooking island, next to an IBM ThinkPad. With a pen from his pocket, he depressed the on-button and read the note Sam Newman left behind.

  I didn’t mean for Janice to die. I’m sorry. I needed the money but I didn’t want it to end this way. Sorry.

  Carson walked to his car and told his driver to call in the crime scene investigators. Nice to wrap it up this way, but it was way too easy. Drake mentions Newman and he finds Newman dead. Drake or someone was way ahead of both of us, Carson thought. He’d have to figure out which tomorrow.

  ~~~

  When Kaamil was told the old cop was dead, he emailed Malik.

  Newman is dead. I’m watching the attorney. My contact in the police department will let me know if they don’t buy Newman’s suicide. If they don’t, the attorney is next unless I hear otherwise. K

  Kaamil sat back in his office chair and smiled. Allah, and therefore Malik, would be pleased their plan was moving forward. The necessary death of one kafir didn’t bother him in the least. This was what he lived for, to kill all those who had made his life miserable.

  Nothing else in life had provided him satisfaction. Playing football had been his early passion. He was the best wide receiver in Oregon, with two state-championship rings, when he graduated with a scholarship to UC Berkeley. He tried drugs, enjoyed the girls and wound up suspended for most of his freshman year.

  By his sophomore year, he was a starter, and by the third game, a star. He ran the forty-yard dash in three point five seconds, and at six foot seven inches, two hundred forty pounds, he was hard to stop when he caught the ball. He found it was more fun running over cornerbacks and safeties than outrunning them. By the end of that year, sports writers were already projecting him as a first-round draft pick.

  Then, a damn, dumb white lineman who wasn’t even a starter fell on his leg in spring practice and put him out for the year. He had worked hard rehabbing his knee, and then been asked to take a drug test. No one told him who’d talked to the coaches, but his best guess had always been someone on the depth chart wanting his position. That ended his collegiate career, and his last attempt to make the American system work for him legally.

  With the NFL out of reach, the next quickest way for a young black man without a stellar academic reputation to make it was by selling drugs. It hadn’t take him long to build a sizeable market among former teammates and other athletes in the Bay area. An irate high school coach put the cops on him and he was in prison before what would have been his junior year.

  His two years in Folsom, however, proved to be the best years of his life. He found a religion that promised him personal peace and a way to strike back at a nation of fools.

  Less than a week and this phase of the operation would be over. Allah willing, his latest plan would be satisfyingly accomplished.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday morning held promise, a clear sky and not too warm for a workout and run with Lancer. Drake was enjoying a breakfast of hash browns, sausage, and eggs when Paul Benning, his secretary’s husband, called.

  “Margo said you wanted to know if I heard anything about the murder at Martin Research. Their head of security committed suicide yesterday afternoon. He left a suicide note. Seems he was selling inside information. They found a recent deposit in his bank account for a hundred thousand dollars. Detective Carson went to his home, found Newman had been drinking. There was a gun on the floor under his hand, and a note on his computer said he was sorry for the secretary’s death.”

  “Any forensics evidence, except for Newman’s, on anything?” Drake asked.

  “Not that they’ve found.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Newman I talked with yesterday. He wasn’t defensive about anything, but he was suspicious of their security firm. He thought they were employing a bunch of felons with new Muslim names.”

  “You think he was just pointing you in another direction?” Paul asked.

  “No, I felt he was genuinely concerned that his company’s security had been compromised.”

  “Have you talked to Carson yet?”

  “No. We have a history. I’d be surprised if I ever hear from Carson about this.”

  “Margo said you had a visitor. If you need someone at your office for a while, I can work something out. This whole thing’s starting to hang together in a way I don’t like.”

  “Paul, if I think we’re in the middle of something, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  “I will. Tell Margo I’ll call her, when I head in.”

  Drake finished breakfast and thought about his meeting with Sam Newman. Why would he turn on his brother-in-law’s firm for money?

  He needed to talk with Detective Carson, as much as he disliked the man. Carson could run checks on the ISIS guards. If there was something there, Carson could follow up. If it was a dead end, he’d be able to tell Richard Martin his brother-in-law was a bad apple. It wouldn’t do much for the company’s security clearance, but that was something Martin would have to handle.

  Drake found the card Carson had given him the day before and called.

  “Detective Carson.”

  “Adam Drake. I heard about Newman. You have time for coffee this morning? Thought I’d share what I’ve learned so far, stuff you might want for your report.”

  “Appreciate your concern for my report, Counselor, but I’ve got this one covered. Doubt there’s much you can tell me. Newman’s suicide note made it pretty clear.”

  “Did you know Newman was Richard Martin’s brother-in-law, and owned enough of the company’s stock to be financially comfortable if the company did well? Why would he betray his brother-in-law and do anything to hurt the company?”

  Drake waited for Carson to answer. “I didn’t think you knew. We need to meet. How about the Starbuck’s at Tanasbourne? I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  “You buy and I’ll listen, but I don’t think it’s going to change anything. Thirty minutes.”

  After a short drive in the 993 and a quick call to let Margo know where he was, Drake pulled into an open space in front of the ubiquitous green and white logo of the world’s largest coffee chain. Through the front window, he saw Carson sitting at a small table reading the paper.

  Drake ordered a light house blend, added some cream and walked over to Carson’s table. The detective was working hard to look as if he hadn’t noticed Drake.

  “Drake, thought you weren’t coming,” Carson said, looking down at his empty cup.

  “Let me get you a refill. What are you drinking?”

  “Grande cappuccino. Thanks.”

  When Drake returned, he noticed Carson’s empty cup was a tall cappuccino.

  “So, Counselor, what is it you want to share? You turn up something I missed that proves this wasn’t suicide?”

  “Carson, enjoy your coffee. I don’t think you missed anything. Newman shared things with me he didn’t share with you, that’s all. He was a cop. He wouldn’t tell you things you’d include in your report he didn’t have evidence to back up. What he shared with me were suspicions, based on his experience and observations. I think you need to hear what he was worried about.”

  Carson ran a hand over his bald head and forced a smile.

  “Drake, the man committed suicide. He must have been worried about a lot of things.”

  “Carson, if you want to write this off as suicide, be my guest. I’m not going to let my client be smeared in the press when they run wild with a story based on your incomplete investigation. If I prove this wasn’t suicide, and you’ve closed the case, my only recourse will be to let the press know how you botched the job. You think your career will stand another embarrassment?”

  Drake noticed Carson’s clenched jaw and thought he’d just wasted a good part of his morning. He could manage without Carson’s help, it would just take him a li
ttle longer. He got up to leave.

  “Sit down, Drake. Tell me what you think Newman was worried about, and then get the hell out of my investigation. This isn’t the only case I’m working.”

  Drake sat down and leaned forward onto his forearms, holding his coffee in both hands in the middle of the table. He didn’t want the rumor of the day at Starbucks to be his mention of ex-cons at Martin Research.

  “You can spot an ex-con walking down the street, and so can I. Newman could too, and thought some of the ISIS security guards had the look. When he checked, he found their records were squeaky clean. They all had new Muslim names and weren’t from around here. He suspected their IDs were phony. I interviewed the ISIS manager to check it out, and got nowhere. I thought the manager looked like a felon too, although he’s damn good at hiding it. I, for one, do not buy suicide. I talked with Newman around noon, and he was not depressed. He was tired and pissed that someone had messed with his company. He was blaming someone, ISIS predominantly, but not himself.”

  “Drake, I talked with Newman, too. He was anxious, upset, and distraught. That sounds like someone capable of suicide to me. If I’d banked a hundred thousand dollars for selling company secrets, I’d be anxious, upset, and distraught.”

  “Were you able to find out where the hundred thousand came from?”

  Carson took a drink of cappuccino and looked out the window.

  “Not yet. Looks like the money came from some offshore account. I’ll admit it’s a little troublesome the money was deposited after the secretary was killed. Just to humor you, let’s say Newman’s suspicions are true, why would the security company be involved?”

  “I don’t know. We know the security system was turned off. Only two people had the code to do that, Sam Newman and ISIS. Newman’s dead, and I don’t believe he committed suicide. I can’t rule ISIS out, can you?”