by Rose Beecham
“Good question,” Arbiter said. “They’ve been running sensitive operations here and in Canada and Mexico for the past few years. We liaise with them, but it sounds like they want more independence.”
“So it’s some kind of turf war?”
“Our friends at the Pentagon don’t like the current accountabilities,” Arbiter said. “They’ve been trying to dump their dependency on the CIA ever since 9/11, and they’re not thrilled with the Bureau either.”
“Because we’re the lead agency? Just a wild guess.”
Jude had trouble getting her head around the web of government agencies involved in homeland security, but no one except the FBI was authorized to direct military antiterror operations on U.S. soil. The Domestic Emergency Support Team was a combined Bureau and military special ops strike force formed for that purpose.
“There’s buzz that Joint Special Operations Command has something major on the horizon,” Arbiter said.
“An exercise?”
Arbiter didn’t respond immediately. “So rumor would have us believe. It’s hard to confirm since we’ve been left out in the cold so far.” His voice held an edge of irony.
The skin around Jude’s hair line prickled. If she was reading her handler correctly, he was telling her that the Pentagon was up to something terror-related and the Bureau knew nothing about it.
“Remember Don’s folly?” Arbiter said in a conversational tone.
The euphemism made Jude aware that they were normally less explicit in their cell phone communications. “Don’s folly” was Arbiter’s code for a new espionage organization proposed by Donald Rumsfeld five years earlier. Among its various functions, the P2OG was supposed to provoke terrorist attacks, or fake them, in order to justify US “responses.” The plans were leaked and no one had said much about the P2OG since then, but organization was up and running, having morphed into the Strategic Support Branch. As far as Jude knew, they ran their black ops offshore.
She picked up Arbiter’s cue with a phony laugh. “Who could forget Don?”
“I was talking with my farmboy friend last week.” For the first time since she’d known him, Arbiter sounded anxious. “He’s off-loading some real estate. One of his Mayflower holdings.”
Jude felt chills. “I see.”
“Farmboy” was a euphemism for graduates of Camp Perry, where the CIA trained its assassins and saboteurs. Reading between the lines, Jude surmised Arbiter’s contact had warned him about the Plymouth Rock area. She couldn’t come right out and ask why. Their call was probably being surveilled by a rival agency. Joining the dots, she concluded Arbiter was dropping a big hint. He suspected there was a Pentagon plan to instigate a domestic terror incident.
“Do you think our subject could be interested in that real estate?” she asked, thinking about Sandy’s mysterious trips away.
“Do us both a favor and find out.”
*
Lone tried to catch a short nap after her phone call with Debbie, but her mind refused to slow down. Her first thought was to drive out to Paradox Valley and make Debbie see sense. She hated hurting the woman she loved, but she had no choice until her primary objective was achieved. There had to be some way to make Debbie happy and to show herself worthy of trust. The answer came to her in a flash. Canada. Debbie resented being kept in the dark about the details, and thinking about it, Lone could see she’d taken too much for granted.
She had tried to introduce the subject over time, talking about moving there and reassuring Debbie that she wouldn’t have to earn a living. But she’d missed the perfect opportunity to make Debbie feel included without having to tell her what was really going on. She would be blown away once she saw the property. A hundred acres on a lake, a tricked-out double-wide trailer, and a beautiful log cabin, now half built. Lone was going to sell the Monticello house to pay for the rest of the building as soon as things quieted down after the assassination.
But why wait? She could take Debbie up there soon and convince her to make the move. She would hire a truck and empty Debbie’s house, pack up the cats, and it would be a done deal. Debbie would have plenty to do working on plans for the new kitchen of her dreams and shopping online for furnishings. She loved that shit.
Eventually, when the time was right, Lone would tell her about Operation Houseclean. It was tempting to disclose a few general details now, just to test the waters, but she couldn’t afford to jeopardize her mission at this critical point. Civilians couldn’t be expected to appreciate the necessity of a plan like hers. Debbie had no understanding of politics and Lone was reluctant to destroy her naïveté by explaining how the world really worked. Gentle souls like Debbie made life worth living for warriors like Lone. She refused to imagine a future without that sweet companionship.
Debbie just needed some time to cool off. Her threat to go away was as hollow as it was unlikely. Where would she go? She didn’t have close friends, and she had no money for a hotel, or airfare, or the cost of gas for a long trip. She had her cats to consider, and she couldn’t just take time off work. No, she would be holed up in her house with the curtains closed, watching that damn Sleepless in Seattle DVD.
By this evening she’d be desperate to hear from Lone and regretting every word of that pointless conversation. Lone would head over there with a pizza and Debbie’s favorite ice cream, and a bunch of flowers. She would grovel and take full responsibility for being thoughtless and inconsiderate. She’d learned long ago that butches had no other choice after a quarrel. They were always wrong and the girlfriend was always right. The details were irrelevant.
Feeling in control once more, Lone deactivated her close perimeter alarms and traversed the buffer zone to her workshop. She dropped down through the concealed trapdoor into her secure bunker and added her notes and sketches from Jackson Hole to the file on the VP’s residences. She then consulted her shortlist of likely event venues for the rest of 2007. The men of the evil alliance were writhing under the bright lights of scrutiny. They had to maintain a stranglehold on power in case the unthinkable happened and they lost the presidential election as well as the house and senate.
Lone felt certain Cheney would soon start raising campaign dollars as he had in 2006, holding thousand-dollar-a-plate chicken dinners to boost the war chests of the most vulnerable GOP candidates. Helpfully, before Karl Rove’s departure, his office had released a “priority defense” list. Most candidates were trying to distance themselves from Bushdom and would avoid making a big deal out of a visit by either Bush or Cheney. But they wouldn’t say no to money, so there would be discreet events at private homes and hotels.
Lone had compiled a list of the most likely beneficiaries and the locations where Cheney events were normally held in their respective cities. In addition, she’d donated to the campaigns of the top five prospects so she would receive advance notice of fund-raisers. As she did every day, she logged on to the Internet and checked to see if any of her targets was about to benefit from the Dicktator’s legendary fund-raising mojo. She wasn’t expecting a hit until September, but she was ready to roll anytime.
Smiling, she glanced at the MK-153 SMAW rocket launcher on the bottom shelf of her dedicated Operation Houseclean wall unit. Lined up alongside it was a collection of HEDP and CS rockets, ideal for taking out an armored town car. On the shelves above, Lone stored her sniper rifles and .300 Win Mag rounds, stun devices, assorted tactical weapons, and disguises.
Ideally, she hoped to carry out her mission from an indoor space. She’d purchased several confined-space rockets to eliminate backblast from the equation. But most of the venues she’d scouted would involve an outdoor strike and, regrettably, the killing of the Secret Service sniper whose position she would take over. Lone hated that idea. She didn’t want to clip some working stiff who was just doing what he had to do. But as the Dicktator himself said, “There comes a time when deceit and defiance must be seen for what they are. At that point, a gathering danger must be confronted directly.”<
br />
She agreed.
Chapter Eight
“Griffin Mahanes is here? On a Sunday?” Koertig’s pie-dough face was mashed in disbelief.
“Tell me about it.” Jude stepped into Maulle’s office. The confined space smelled metallic.
“Rich people always go for the cover-up, even when they’re innocent,” Koertig said. “That’s their instinct.”
“Her parents retained him.” Jude supposed the Calloways were only trying to make sure their daughter didn’t implicate herself. In their position she might do the same if a family member stepped from the scene of a murder, covered in blood.
“You get any sense of a motive from the niece?” Koertig asked.
She handed him a copy of the report she’d typed up after the interview. “The family sounds pretty typical. Dysfunctional. Alienated from each other. Just a whole more money than the rest of us.”
“Any idea who’s likely to benefit from the death?”
“We won’t know until we see the will, but Pippa thought her uncle would leave his money to charity.” Jude emptied the contents of Fabian Maulle’s trash basket onto the floor in an area free of blood. “He only had the one sister. Pippa’s mom.”
Scanning her report, Koertig remarked, “The vic was gay, huh? That’s what I thought.” He ran through his reasons. “Closet bigger than my family room. Everything color coded. Kitchen right out of a magazine. And the dog. Your regular single male doesn’t have a poodle.”
“Which reminds me.” Jude deferred the discussion on stereo-typing. “Do we have the necropsy report yet?”
They’d sent Coco’s body to a veterinary pathologist in Durango. Time of death was always difficult to estimate precisely, but it would help to know roughly when the killer entered the property and shot the dog. They could then calculate the window between that event and Pippa’s arrival at 4:40 p.m. There was also the possibility that ballistic evidence could play a role. They’d recovered a 9mm shell casing from the scene, and if the bullet taken from Coco could be matched to a weapon they would have something to take to trial when that day came. Jude was surprised that it wasn’t a through and through, but placement was everything. even at point-blank range.
“The vet tech says we can expect it Tuesday.” Koertig peered into the gutted computer. “Why take the hard drive? Passwords for bank accounts?”
“Maybe. Or incriminating correspondence. E-mails. Et cetera.”
“I guess blackmail’s a possibility with him being a homosexual,” Koertig said.
“I don’t think so,” Jude responded. “It’s not like he’s a pastor or a family-values politician blowing smoke. According to Pippa, he didn’t care who knew. He had a couple of long-term relationships, but nothing recently. We need to track down any casual partners.”
“Personal motive?” Koertig posited. “Disgruntled ex knows Maulle is loaded and thinks he should have a piece. He shows up and makes threats. Maybe he just meant to scare Maulle, not kill him.”
“Four stab wounds doesn’t seem like an accident.” Jude stared at the desk. “Was his laptop taken into evidence?”
“No.”
“He owned one. Pippa said she advised him on the purchase last Christmas.”
“That tallies with a warranty in the files. An Apple about eight months old.”
“So, the killer took it or it’s in another house.”
Koertig shook his head. “He’d have it with him. Why bother owning one, otherwise?”
“Apparently he wasn’t technically inclined,” Jude said. “Pippa did backups for him.”
“There’s no sign of a zip drive, memory key, or CDs,” Koertig said.
Jude found it odd that Maulle was sloppy in that department. He kept his house in perfect order. She inspected the smoothed-out papers he’d discarded. Most were “to do” lists and phone messages.
“Got anything good there?” Koertig asked.
“Plumber, eight thirty a.m. Gym. Pick up cleaning.” Jude switched to reading from the grocery list. Maulle had the basic food groups covered. “Asparagus, button mushrooms, basil, cantaloupe, oysters, prosciutto.”
“I had that once. Proscuitto. Give me Canadian bacon any day.” Koertig set about opening and shaking every book he picked up from the floor. “The guy’s fridge is a work of art. Fully loaded, stainless steel. Computer that tells you when the caviar’s running low.”
Jude conceded this attempt at humor with a brief smile. She’d inspected the glamorous appliance when she arrived, unwise on an empty stomach. Maulle had obviously stocked up for his niece’s arrival. Along with the sophisticated delicacies that fit with his discarded shopping lists were various items from the fast food spectrum. Jude had been tempted to sample the shrimp salad. It seemed like a shame to let it go bad.
Koertig was similarly concerned about perfectly good food going to waste. “Did you see the cheese drawer? You wouldn’t get an aged Gouda like that in a five-star restaurant.”
Jude got a flash of Griffin Mahanes in court describing detectives washing down Brie and caviar with fancy wine purloined from the victim’s cellar, said shameless contamination of the scene taking place after they finished disrespecting the man’s personal possessions. Could such people be trusted to give evidence?
She said, “I’m sure the family will appreciate the supplies once the house is released.”
“You think they’ll stay out here awhile?”
“Not if Mahanes has anything to do with it. He’ll want them far away and out of reach once we’ve taken their statements.”
Koertig handed Jude an inventory of the desk drawer contents. “So far no date book and no list of telephone contacts.”
“He probably used his computer as an organizer.”
“Big help.”
“Is someone handling the phone dump?” Jude asked.
“Yeah, and we’re tracing the Caddy and the Lexus.”
“Anything off IAFIS?”
“Not so far.”
“Sorry I didn’t make it to the briefing.”
“You didn’t miss much. Belle did the reconstruction. It went down like we thought. Maulle tried to fight off the assailant at the top of the stairs. Hit him with the cane.”
“So there’s a different blood group on the cane head?”
“Yeah. We won’t have DNA results for a few days, but the blood on the floor looks to be Maulle’s and the head spray on the banisters belongs to an unidentified male.”
“So the assailant is hit on the head, then comes at Maulle with the knife,” Jude said. “Why not shoot him?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Almost any bullet was far more likely to be lethal than a stab wound. The killer must have made a conscious choice not to kill Maulle immediately.
“She said the perp walked Maulle backward to the office. The rest of the stab wounds occurred there. Plus the blunt force trauma.”
“What size feet?” Jude asked. “Eight for the assailant and nine for Maulle?”
“You’re good.” Koertig grinned. “Maulle’s shoes are custom, one foot slightly bigger than the other. Made in London. Same as his suits.”
“This is interesting.” Jude handed a slip of paper to Koertig. It was dated early in August and was addressed to Pippa.
He read aloud, “‘Dear Pip, for unforeseen reasons I need to be in London for the next few weeks. I’ve reserved a flight for you with British Airways. Put your stuff in storage and come spend a few weeks in Europe before you travel to the Four Corners. We’ll discuss future plans once you’re in town. You have my support, no matter what.’”
Jude bagged the note. It was the only item from the trash worth following up on.
They spent the next hour searching every crevice of Maulle’s office. His paper records were limited to receipts, which he filed methodically according to their type, tax deductible or not. Donations. Tradesmen’s quotes. Insurance. Medical. There were newspaper clippings relating to events he atte
nded, a few photographs of himself with politicians and celebrities. Souvenir menus and place cards from meals at embassies and even the White House. His correspondence included letters from charities thanking him for his support, matters relating to his four homes, and a collection of birthday and Christmas cards from Pippa dating back twenty years. These were housed in a file marked “Pip,” which was crammed with photos, letters, printed e-mails, cards, poems, school reports, and keepsakes she must have given him. Jude opened a small box.
“It’s a tooth and a lock of Pippa’s hair.” She turned the box over. The inscription read “Pippa 7 yrs.”
“No file for her brother,” Koertig noted.
“I guess he’s chopped liver.”
“Sounds like my family. My sister was always the favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Jude said. She wondered how Pippa’s brother felt about being excluded. “That portrait in the formal dining room. It’s Pippa, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I just realized.”
They exchanged an uneasy look.
“Do you think it’s…normal?” Koertig asked.
“I think we need to ask Pippa.”
“She’s really cut up about the death.”
“That could mean anything.” Jude leafed through the photos more intently.
Most featured the studied poses of childhood. First day of school. Santa’s knee at a department store. Patting a dog. Halloween costumes. Summer camp. Prom. Graduation. The candid shots were equally innocent: Pippa wearing Mickey Mouse ears at Disneyland or running into the surf with a board under her arm. Jude was familiar with the photo collections of abusers from her time in the Crimes Against Children Unit. They were quite different from this assortment of milestone moments.
“I’ll speak with Pippa some more,” she said. “Just to be sure. But I doubt Maulle was abusing her.”
If he was, that would change everything. For a start, Pippa would have a motive and they would have to rethink their theory of the crime. Male blood and footprints were found at the scene. Pippa could have brought an accomplice. Anything was possible.
