Meanwhile, his best option was to return to the Hampton Inn on I-81 in case Mullins hadn’t checked out. Maybe he was in Roanoke for more than one night.
Mullins’ car wasn’t in the hotel lot. Sidney parked on the side of the building where his own room had been. He’d received his receipt under the door at four-thirty that morning, left his keycard and five dollars for the maid on the nightstand, and staked out Mullins from the Audi.
Sidney checked the time before getting out of the car. Nine-fifty. There was a good chance the front desk thought he was still in his room. He walked to the entrance, grabbed a cup of coffee and blueberry muffin from the complimentary breakfast buffet, and nonchalantly approached the registration desk.
A cheerful blonde looked up from her computer and smiled. “Can I help you?”
“I’m checking out of 207 and left the key in the room.”
“Was everything all right?”
“Yes. Except I forgot to set my alarm and overslept. I was supposed to have breakfast at nine with someone I met last night. Russell Mullins. Has he checked out?”
“Do you know his room number?”
“No.” Sidney motioned toward the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall in the lounge. “We came in at the same time and baseball was on. We both paused to watch the end of the second inning and wound up staying for the whole game. More fun than watching it alone.”
“Uh huh,” the woman said, her fingers dashing over her keyboard like a concert pianist’s. “Sorry. Mr. Mullins has checked out.”
Sidney shrugged. “Thanks anyway. I’m leaving as well.”
“We still provide wake-up calls.”
“Good. Would you call me at home? I oversleep there too.”
She laughed. “I’ll put that in the customer suggestion box. It’s about as likely to happen as any other request.”
“I always suggest getting rid of the suggestion box.”
Thirty minutes later, Sidney watched the last police car pull away. He entered the Laurel Bank lobby and surveyed the line of tellers returning to their windows. One woman gave the others instructions.
He approached her and read her gold name badge. “Excuse me, Lexie. I was supposed to meet a friend here, but in all the excitement we must have missed each other.”
“Someone who works at the bank?”
“No. But he had an appointment. We were catching up afterwards. At ten.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been so confusing with the bomb scare that I don’t know who’s been here.”
Sidney stepped closer and rested his arm on the marble ledge of her window. “He was coming before nine because he told me someone would have to let him in. Maybe his meeting was delayed, but I don’t want to wait around if he’s gone.”
Lexie nodded. “I think I know who you mean. Was his appointment with Mr. Archer?”
Sidney took a chance. “Yes. That’s the name. Rusty didn’t tell me his title.”
“Rusty?”
“My friend’s nickname.”
“Mr. Archer is president of our bank.”
“Then I don’t want to bother him. Would you check if my friend’s still with him? Russell Mullins.”
“My pleasure.” Lexie picked up her phone, anxious to please someone associated with a guest in the president’s office. “Linda, it’s Lexie. Is Russell Mullins still with Mr. Archer? His friend’s in the lobby.”
Sidney saw confusion on the teller’s face.
“But I saw Mr. Archer let him in this morning,” she said. “Thin reddish hair, nice blue suit. Maybe fifty.” She listened a moment. “And you’re sure that’s the name?” She listened again. “No, there’s no problem. I’ll let him know.” She hung up.
“Something wrong?” Sidney asked.
“That was Mr. Archer’s administrative assistant. The person I described was named Walter Thomson. She has no appointment listed for a Russell Mullins. Are you sure you were meeting today?”
Sidney laughed. “I thought so, but I could be wrong. This is embarrassing. I’m probably at the wrong bank.”
Lexie smiled. “There are one or two others in town, but ours is the best.”
“I’m sure it is. Sorry to trouble you.” Sidney walked out the lobby, wondering why Russell Mullins used his real name at the Hampton Inn but set up his appointment under an alias. He could only conclude that the hotel required a photo ID and a bank interview didn’t. Why would Mullins meet with a bank president using a phony name?
Sidney sat in the Audi, uncertain what to do. His first reaction was to return to the bank, identify himself as a reporter, and confront Archer. But he might be blowing a key strategy of Mullins’ investigation, an investigation that could net Sidney an exclusive. He decided to confront Mullins instead, maybe force him to reveal his plan. If Mullins was headed back to D.C., then he had over an hour’s lead. Sidney started the car. He’d take advantage of the Audi’s superior horsepower and find Mullins as soon as possible.
***
Archer’s handwritten report took five pages of his legal pad and he composed it carefully for accuracy in case he ever had to testify in court. The bomb scare had unnerved him. He suspected the incident was tied somehow to Mullins and the mysterious call from Agent Nathaniel Brown. He looked at his phone. The agent was due to call and give him his next set of instructions. Archer had cleared his schedule and he hoped once he’d completed his task, he’d never hear of Russell Mullins or Nathaniel Brown again.
The buzzer from his intercom startled him. “What is it, Linda?”
“Lexie called from downstairs. She said someone had come in saying he was supposed to meet your morning appointment.”
Archer felt his stomach knot. Was Agent Brown in the bank?
“Did you tell him Mr. Thomson had gone.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the name he gave. He was looking for Russell Mullins. I just wanted to see if the right name had been entered in your appointment calendar. I wasn’t the one who put it in.”
The knot tightened. Someone had been following Mullins. “I don’t know that name,” he stammered. “I met with Mr. Thomson.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s what I told her.”
Archer grimaced. He hadn’t wanted his lie to go beyond his assistant. “So, you were correct. Anything else?”
“Yes. A Mr. Brown is on line two. He says you’re expecting his call.”
Chapter Nineteen
The history of Roanoke, Virginia is forever linked with the railroad industry. The Norfolk and Western line not only made Roanoke a major transportation hub, but it also produced the finest steam locomotives in the world. Jobs and commerce roared through the city like a freight train thundering through the Shenandoah Valley. Soot and cinders weren’t dirt, they were signatures of prosperity.
Until the coming of the diesels—cleaner, quieter, and made elsewhere. Over two thousand workers were laid off, and as the railroad industry abandoned the power of steam, it also abandoned Roanoke. When Norfolk and Western merged with Southern Railways to form Norfolk Southern, the headquarters of the new company was established in Norfolk, Virginia. Roanoke remained an important hub, but the clout of manufacturing and leadership had evaporated like steam from a leaky boiler.
Some remnants of the golden age survived as part of Virginia’s Transportation Museum. But other warehouses and industrial buildings fell into disrepair.
Craig Archer was a little surprised that Treasury Agent Nathaniel Brown suggested they meet behind one of the railroad ruins. The old Virginia Railway passenger station near the South Jefferson Street Bridge had been abandoned for years. A fire had done extensive damage, and although it stood beside active rail lines, a chain-link fence had been erected around it while funds were sought for preservation and renovation.
Archer pulled his Cad
illac Escalade to the back corner of the depot lot close to one of the bridge abutments. Overhead, headlights cut through the gathering dusk as cars moved in a steady stream. Archer killed the engine and rolled down the windows. Usually the mountain air cooled quickly after sunset, but the June day had been a scorcher and heat radiated from the ground.
He thought about getting out and stretching his legs. Surely a breeze blew across the rail yard.
A pair of headlights rounded the corner of the dilapidated depot. The vehicle pulled close behind, wedging Archer’s Cadillac against the bridge’s footing. High beams flicked on, lighting up the interior and bouncing off the rearview mirror into Archer’s face. What a hotdog, Archer thought. Just like in the movies.
Archer opened his door.
“Stay in the car,” a voice shouted. “Put your hands on the steering wheel.”
Archer obeyed. He heard footsteps approach his window. He turned his head toward the sound. “Agent Brown?”
A man stepped alongside Archer’s SUV. The high beams lit the right side of a swarthy face. The light glinted off coal black eyes. “Craig Archer?”
The words were tainted with a foreign accent. Maybe Middle Eastern, Archer thought. “Yes. Can I see some identification?”
The man reached his right hand inside his dark jacket and held it there. “Can I see the documents?”
“Okay.” Archer turned to the manila envelope on the passenger seat where he’d stuffed his handwritten account of the meeting with Russell Mullins.
The suppressor muffled the pistol shot, reducing the sound to little more than a loud cough. The muzzle velocity of the bullet was also reduced, but still fast enough to smash through the skull behind Archer’s ear and exit through his right temple.
The seatbelt and shoulder restraint kept his body dangling over the console. Blood and brains speckled the surface of the envelope on the passenger’s seat.
The assassin walked around the front of the Cadillac and reached through the open window of the passenger’s door. He grabbed the envelope by a clean corner and held it away from his expensive suit.
The open window had provided an escape route for the bullet and made its recovery unlikely. Too bad. But the blood on the envelope would be even better.
A freight train approached on an adjacent track. By the time it passed, the assassin and Craig Archer’s handwritten report were gone.
***
Sidney Levine waited for Rusty Mullins in the parking lot of Shirlington House till nine when he resigned himself to the fact that Mullins had given him the slip and gone elsewhere.
He kicked himself for not getting Mullins’ cell number. The landline to the apartment was the only number listed and it was useless when Mullins was out of town. Detective Sullivan probably had Mullins’ cell number, but Sidney knew he’d have to give Sullivan a reason for needing it. The cagey detective would want information in exchange.
Sidney decided to leave a message on Mullins’ home voicemail. “I know about Walter Thomson. Call me.” He closed with his cell number, feeling certain the name would force Mullins to get in touch.
When he got back to Georgetown, he logged onto his Internet account and Googled “Craig Archer Laurel Bank.”
The first reference was less than an hour old and linked to The Roanoke Times. He clicked it, expecting a quote from Archer on the morning bomb scare.
The newspaper headline stunned him.
“Bank President Murdered!”
A chill swept through him. Russell Mullins had met Craig Archer using a phony name. Craig Archer was now dead. And Sidney had left Mullins a message proving he knew where Mullins had been and the name he used. If Mullins was a murderer, Sidney Levine had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter Twenty
Rusty Mullins felt his phone vibrate against his side. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Nine-fifteen. Another forty-five minutes would get him to Daytona Beach. After twelve hours on the road, with only brief stops for lunch and dinner, he’d find a motel on I-95 and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow he’d drive another four hours and face the task of tracking down Fred Mack.
The phone kept vibrating. Not an email or text message. Someone wanted him, and Mullins didn’t want to be found. His daughter Kayli was the only call he’d accept, but he’d already spoken to her once that afternoon and let her, and only her, know where he was headed.
The ID showed an unfamiliar number with a 540 area code. Roanoke, if he remembered correctly. Craig Archer was the one person he knew there who had his cell number. Calling this late indicated he had important information.
“Hello.” Mullins never answered with his name, an old habit from his undercover days.
“Is this Walter Thomson?” The man’s voice was clipped and authoritative.
“Sorry. You have the wrong number.”
Before he could snap the phone shut, the man said, “Russell Mullins?”
Without hesitating, Mullins broke the connection. The voice wasn’t Archer’s. A wrong number from Roanoke was odd enough. 540 and his Arlington area code of 703 would be hard to mix up, but using a wrong name followed by his name sent alarm bells ringing. When he reached a Daytona motel, he’d do a reverse look-up for the incoming number.
His phone vibrated again. A text message. “Call me. URGENT. AC.”
Amanda Church. Mullins knew a trained agent who so carefully orchestrated their clandestine meeting at the bookstore wouldn’t text his cell for a chat. He called the incoming number.
“What?” was all he said.
“I set up a Google alert on our friend. Ten minutes ago his name appeared in an online news update from Roanoke. He was found shot to death in his car by an abandoned railroad depot. No suspects.”
“Suicide?”
“I’ve checked other wire services and that possibility’s not mentioned. No weapon was found at the scene.”
Mullins felt the ground shift under him. Archer murdered. A man who genuinely seemed in the dark regarding the dubious financial transactions that ran through his bank. Had Mullins failed to uncover key information during the interview, or was the Fred Mack file on the seat beside him worth a man’s life?
And the reporter, Sidney Levine. He’d seen Mullins enter the bank. Could he have silenced Archer?
“Hey, are you there?” Amanda shouted through the phone.
“Yeah. Just surprised. Listen, I’m pulling into my parking lot. Let me check a few sources. Call you tomorrow.”
“Right.” She hung up.
They’d used no names. Mullins hoped the lie about his location would delay any eavesdropper from tracing the cell tower relays and pinpointing him fifty miles north of Daytona Beach.
He took the next exit, pulled into an Exxon station, and paid cash to fill the Prius. He had six hundred dollars left from the eight-hundred total he withdrew from two ATMs the previous day. He’d used no credit cards. The remaining wad of twenties would have to last till he returned to Arlington.
He extracted the battery from his BlackBerry, placed it in the glove box, and tucked the disabled phone under his seat. Not only was he losing communication, but also the BlackBerry’s GPS service. He entered the Exxon mini-mart and bought a Snickers and a detailed map of South Florida.
An hour later, Mullins checked into a Holiday Inn Express at I-95 and Daytona’s Speedway Blvd.
As the young man behind the registration desk programmed the keycard, Mullins asked, “Is there a business center where I can check my email?”
“Yes, sir.” The uniformed night man slid the card into an envelope. “Your room is 211. The business center is on this floor beyond the elevators.” He pointed down the adjacent hall. “It’s open twenty-four-seven and we have three terminals and a shared printer. You should have no trouble getting an open
computer at this hour.”
Mullins thanked him, picked up his overnight bag, and headed for the business center.
He had the room to himself. He logged on as a guest and navigated to White Pages, Reverse Lookup. He typed in the Roanoke call from memory. After a few seconds search, “No number available” appeared on the screen. But there was a list of sponsors claiming to have the information for a fee. So much for the free lookup.
Maybe the number wasn’t a private residence. He tried searching for a business. Same result. No free info, but a host of links promising to provide information for fees ranging from one dollar to ten dollars. Under the circumstances, Mullins wasn’t about to use his credit card on an Internet site.
To hell with this, he thought. There was only one number he was worried about. He might as well check it directly. He typed in the information for a Google search.
The number appeared under the name Mullins had feared.
The Roanoke Police Department.
They had his cell number, they had his name, and they had a bomb threat and a murder occurring on the same day he came to town. They would find him a person of interest until he could be ruled out. And they would do their own reverse look up and confirm the number of the phone he answered belonged to a Russell Mullins.
But who was Walter Thomson and why did the caller think he was reaching him?
Mullins logged out and cleared the browser’s history.
So much for a good night’s sleep.
***
Sidney Levine cruised slowly through the parking lot of Shirlington House. Mullins hadn’t returned and it was nearly one in the morning. If he’d killed Archer and driven back to Arlington, he’d be here by now.
Sidney returned to his apartment in Georgetown where he sat in an easy chair in the dark, avoiding the temptation to turn on his computer. The speculations of his Internet followers were noisy prattle, the musings of paranoid loners who found virtual companionship by inventing conspiracies for their own entertainment.
The 13th Target Page 9
