Kayli laughed. “Just like his son-in-law.”
“Well, check with Don. It couldn’t hurt. And when you do hear from your Dad, drop me an email.”
When the conversation was over, Kayli looked at her watch. Ten after ten. Too late to phone Don Beecham. She’d try in the morning before he left for work.
And maybe her dad would call before then or send his text saying, “Good Morning Glory.”
The comfort she gained from talking to Allen faded. Something was wrong. She felt it in the pit of her stomach. Her dad had been evasive about where he was going and what he was doing. Like the old days with the Secret Service. But this was different if he was on his own. She didn’t doubt her father’s abilities, but she also didn’t doubt he could be too hard-headed and too independent for his own good.
Chapter Thirty-three
Rusty Mullins sat down on the sofa and balanced his coffee on his knee. “There are things I can tell you and things you’re going to have to trust me on.”
“No. I’m going to have to trust you on everything, especially the things you tell me.” Detective Sullivan took a cup from Sidney Levine and hoisted it toward Mullins. “You’d do the same in my position.”
Sidney returned to the kitchen to get the third mismatched cup for himself.
Sullivan’s gaze followed him. “And I’m also not comfortable discussing the Luguire case or anything else in front of a reporter.”
“Except I’m a writer. Not a reporter.” Sidney pulled a folding chair from the corner of the room and sat opposite Mullins.
Sullivan took the easy chair and completed an equilateral triangle. “What the hell’s the difference?”
“Like I told you. I don’t have an assignment editor, which means I don’t have a deadline. I can sit on this until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Sullivan shook his head. “Evidently Mullins already knows what we’re dealing with. And the way I see it, I’m the only one here whose ass can wind up in a sling.”
“There’s plenty of trouble to go around,” Mullins said. “And the stakes are too high for any of us to worry about our own asses. Now we’re either working together or I’m walking out the door.”
The ultimatum surprised Sidney and Sullivan. Mullins had called the meeting, and more importantly, he’d been off the grid for over two days. He bet their curiosity would win out. If not, then he was ready to make good on his threat.
“All right,” Sullivan said. “My pension’s not worth a crap anyway. But I’m not closing my eyes to a crime.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Mullins said. “We’re trying to prevent one. That’s the new priority.”
Sullivan leaned forward in his chair. “You mean there’s more to this than solving the deaths of Luguire and Archer?”
“Yes. And the problem is that there’s so much more some innocent people are going to get hurt or even killed because saving their lives could jeopardize a larger operation.”
“What larger operation?” Sidney asked.
“That’s the part where you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll paint the picture in broad strokes, but Federal agencies are dealing with it.” Mullins looked at Sullivan. “They’re not directly involved in your investigation, so I doubt you’ll cross paths. It’s also better if you have limited knowledge in case they blow it. There’s no reason for any of this to come back on you.”
“My pension insurance,” Sullivan said.
“You can think of it that way.”
“So what are we working on?” Sidney asked.
“This.” Mullins took an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “I made a copy before I turned the original over to the feds. One side is a photograph and the other is the backside where someone wrote information about the picture.” He passed the two copies to Sullivan.
“Looks like Florida,” Sullivan said.
“Sunrise, Florida.”
Sullivan read the handwritten note on the second copy. “‘Fares, Zaina, and Jamila, age 3. November 2011.’ Who are these people?”
“They lived in the house. That is until the bank foreclosed on them.”
“Archer’s bank?” Sullivan passed the photocopies to Sidney.
“No. The mortgage was held by a Florida bank with no connection to Archer that I could find.”
“Then what do they have to do with Archer and Luguire?” Sullivan asked.
“The family’s last name is Khoury. They’re Lebanese. Fares Khoury used an alias to open a bank account at a branch of Archer’s bank in Staunton, Virginia. I went to see Archer in Roanoke on Monday to ask him about Khoury. More accurately, Fred Mack, the false name used on the account.”
“Freddie Mac,” Sidney said. “The Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corporation, the public government-sponsored agency that buys and sells secondary mortgages. They got stuck with so much toxic shit that last year they sued seventeen banks for misrepresenting their bundled mortgage funds.”
Both Sullivan and Mullins looked at Sidney with new appreciation.
“Jesus,” Mullins said. “Freddie Mac. I should have seen the connection.”
“Was Archer’s bank one of the seventeen?” Sullivan asked.
Sidney shook his head. “Just the big boys. Maybe this Khoury saw himself as being screwed like Freddie Mac, or if his scheme was to defraud the bank, then maybe he was making a statement that Freddie Mac was just as culpable.”
“You lost me,” Sullivan said.
“The banks and related financial institutions were under pressure from the politicians to make homeownership more affordable. Banks are by nature adverse to risk, but they like making money. Politicians can tie them up in reviews, committee hearings, and banking regulations. Politicians want homeowners voting for them, and bank executives want shareholders approving bonuses that are larger than the GNP of most countries. Throw in the wink factor, plus a Federal Reserve and Treasury Department ready, willing, and able to infuse debt-generated capital into the system, and you have an unholy alliance.”
Sullivan scratched his head. “What do you mean wink factor?”
“You get the banks, the feds, and the politicians in a room together. The politicians push the banks for looser mortgage underwriting and give them a wink. Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae wink to the banks they’ll agree to buy their mortgages on the secondary market, the politicians wink at these government-sponsored agencies that they’ll cover their risks, and everybody winks at the Federal Reserve and U.S. Treasury to provide the bailout money in case some of those mortgages go south.”
“What about Wall Street?” Sullivan asked.
“Wall Street saw a gold mine in bundling all these new mortgages into investment vehicles and making an obscene amount of money while adding nothing of value. The brakes were off, loan screening and lending practices became a joke, and everybody was grabbing every dollar possible. Housing prices skyrocketed, but that didn’t stop sales. Bigger mortgages made up the difference, and commissions at every step of the process turned mortgage lending and mortgage-backed securities into a feeding frenzy.”
“And then it blew up,” Mullins said.
Sidney waved his hands in a wide circle. “A goddamned mushroom cloud. The 2008 financial collapse left people unable to pay mortgages that were ballooning. Not just homeowners who lost their jobs, but people who’d been told they would simply roll-over escalating mortgages into new loans. But when real estate values plummeted, people who tried to refinance found they not only had no equity, they had a value deficit between the appraised worth of their home and the balance of their existing mortgage. Sometimes the appraisal was only half the mortgage balance. I interviewed one family whose payment went from a thousand dollars a month to seven thousand a month. They needed seventy-two thousand of new income just to stay even.”
Sidney
looked at the photograph of the Khourys. “If that happened to this family, they would have felt like victims. And who could argue? It was all a damn shell game, stacked in favor of everyone but those who could least afford to bear the loss. The poor and the taxpayer.” Sidney handed the photo back to Mullins. “You think Fares Khoury, a.k.a. Fred Mack, killed Archer?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Sullivan asked.
“Because I talked to him this morning. He didn’t know who Craig Archer was.”
“You believed him? I think the Roanoke police would like to decide whether he’s telling the truth.”
“I’d love for the Roanoke police to talk to him. But twenty minutes after he swore his innocence, I found him dead in his pickup with one gunshot to the head. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Sullivan whistled under his breath. “Somebody shut him up.”
“That’s the way I see it. And somebody shut up Craig Archer. I don’t know what Archer’s game was, but I didn’t tell him I was Walter Thomson. Either he or someone else wanted my identity a secret, or wanted to make it look like I’d given him a false name.”
“Was Khoury killed in Staunton?” Sullivan asked.
“Yes. I found him at a farmhouse he’d rented.”
“What do the Staunton police think?”
“They don’t think anything.”
Sullivan’s round Irish face bloomed red. “I can’t condone keeping the murder of that man from the authorities.”
“I haven’t kept it from the authorities. I placed an anonymous tip. I’ve learned when the deputies got there, the truck and the body were gone. They think my call was a prank.”
Sidney pointed to the photo in Mullins’ hand. “Somebody murdered that man and then cleaned up the scene after you left?”
“Yes. And pretty damn quick. I phoned in less than fifteen minutes. The deputies would probably have been there in under ten.”
“Where were you when Khoury was killed?” Sullivan asked.
“Still in his farmhouse. That’s where I found this picture.”
“You let him go?”
Mullins reddened. “He sort of got the jump on me. My car was too far away to give chase. I found him as I was leaving.”
“Do you think whoever killed him knew you were there?”
“Possibly.”
“That makes no sense,” Sullivan said.
“I know,” Mullins agreed.
“What?” Sidney asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Why didn’t they kill me?”
“They thought you were armed.”
“Then why leave the body in the truck where I could find it and then remove it before the police arrived?”
“Did you touch anything?” Sidney asked. “Maybe they were hoping you’d incriminate yourself. You know, tie you to that death and then Archer and even Luguire sound plausible.”
“He’s got a point,” Sullivan said.
“Maybe. If I’d called the police from the scene, they might have killed me and either left or removed both of us. But when I drove off, they could have thought I was on the run, and that suited them fine.”
“Why?” Sullivan asked.
“Because Fares Khoury thought I was part of a conspiracy. He’d been told to expect me and that I was supposed to deliver the bomb to its destination.”
“Bomb?” Sullivan and Sidney said in unison.
“Yes. Fares Khoury had assembled fertilizer and fuel oil. Yesterday, someone removed them and a journal he’d been keeping. Khoury thought that I was taking the bomb to Richmond to blow up the Federal Reserve Bank.”
“My God,” Sidney exclaimed. “That’s the big picture?”
“No. There are the other eleven regional Federal Reserve banks as well.”
Sullivan got to his feet and paced. “You’re not keeping that to yourself, are you?”
“No. The information’s being relayed to someone I trust. The relevant agencies are making a coordinated investigation. But we’re not to breathe a word. They’ll want to wrap this network up with one swoop. They’ve got the twelve locations, and they’ve got a target date.”
“When?”
“July Fourth. This Saturday. But there’s another complication. Khoury told me a thirteenth target has been added. The one I’m supposed to take out.”
“Washington headquarters?” Sidney asked.
“That’s what we think.”
“That’s quite a story,” Sullivan said. “So, why are we sitting here?”
“Because too many things indicate internal complicity. And I think after the planned attack, the investigation will look for someone on the inside. My name has popped up too many places for me not to be the possible fall guy. In some ways, I’m made to order, a former insider who’s now an outsider.”
“Don’t they know you’re on to them?” Sullivan asked.
“Maybe not. Or maybe it’s too late to change plans. Either way, I don’t think they know the extent of my knowledge. That’s why I’m staying clear of everything.”
Sullivan returned to the chair. “I don’t understand how you got on to this. Sounds like they were planting evidence you were never intended to see.”
“Someone inside the Federal Reserve discovered a breach in cyber-security. An unauthorized transfer of funds had been made, supposedly by Paul Luguire. This person came to me the morning after Luguire died, convinced that the breach had been made by someone on the inside.”
“Before Luguire’s death?” Sidney asked.
“Just days before. The person had told only Luguire because of the implications such a security breach carried.”
Sidney shook his head. “Not only a security breach but an operational anomaly. Luguire didn’t deal with member banks. He worked with Treasury.”
“Whatever. I don’t claim to understand how the Fed works. But we think Luguire went investigating. To make a long story short, Luguire was killed, my name was linked to the account, and that’s when we realized my connection to Luguire was being exploited. I was being set up.”
“Why are you trusting us?” Sullivan asked.
“Both of you are too far down the food chain. But you have resources and access I can use.”
“This plot smacks of terrorism,” Sullivan said.
“I know. But I don’t think Fares Khoury is a terrorist. I think he’s the real fall guy. He pleaded with me to save his family. He thought I had control of them.”
“He sounds like a willing participant to me,” Sullivan argued. “He loses his home, he assembles the materials for a bomb, but then you catch him. How many suspects have you heard sing the tune ‘Somebody Made Me Do It’ when they thought the game was up? And I hate to say it, but the guy fits the profile.”
“I found an envelope containing severed hair and a note with one word, ‘Remember.’ The hair is the same color as the hair of the wife and little girl.”
Sullivan took a sip of coffee and thought about the meaning of Mullins’ discovery. “He could have been forcibly recruited?”
“I saw his face. I know how to read a face. He was terrified for his family.”
“Have you got this envelope?”
“No. I turned it over. Any fingerprints or DNA might be the only lead to who’s behind the attacks. But I did hold back a few strands of hair.” He pulled a small Ziploc bag from his pocket.
“What else have you got in your pockets?” Sullivan asked.
Mullins smiled, as he withdrew a larger Ziploc. “Khoury was a diabetic. I traced him through his insulin prescription. Here’s a pen he used for his injections. I thought you could run a trace on the prints, just in case he turns up in the system somewhere.”
“Won’t the feds be doing the same thing?”
>
“Yes, they have the other pens. But they’ll be concentrating on fertilizer purchases, fuel oil, van rentals, the litany of items in the vicinity of Federal Reserve property. They’ll be all over the network chatter trying to intercept the bombs. Khoury’s role is over for them, and unless there’s some hit to a terrorist cell or handler, they’ll focus on other areas. Not on rescuing his family.”
“This doesn’t seem like much to go on,” Sidney said. “You know where the guy lived, but you don’t know where they’ve taken his body.”
“I’m looking for a link to the wife and child. Where’d they live before? Who else knew them?”
Sullivan reached out his hand. “Let me see that.”
Mullins gave him the bag containing the insulin pen.
“What are these little white cones?”
“Packaging for the needles. You dial up the dose and use the pen till it’s empty. You cap it with a sterile needle for each injection.”
Sullivan held the clear bag up to the light and looked at the needles’ silhouettes in their protective plastic. “I wonder if the pen is tamper-proof.”
“Nothing’s tamper-proof,” Mullins said. “What are you thinking?”
“The M. E. reported a shaving nick under Luguire’s jaw. A styptic pencil had been used to stem the bleeding. But I noticed an electric shaver in his bathroom. Further examination revealed the wound to be a needle puncture. I’d like to make a comparison.”
Sidney rubbed his palms back and forth on his thighs in excitement. “Luguire was murdered by insulin? That’s impossible to trace, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sullivan said. “Now we have tests for blood and urine, even from a corpse. Mystery writers love it, but it’s not a very efficient method. Too unpredictable.”
“Does everybody know that?” Sidney asked.
“No. I’m sure most of the general public still thinks it’s an untraceable murder weapon. And that might be the point of using one of these.” He tapped the pen with his forefinger. “Use it as the delivery device. If there was no insulin found, then its absence proved it had to be the murder weapon.”
“And by focusing on insulin, you’d miss something else,” Mullins said.
The 13th Target Page 16
