Death of Secrets

by Bowen Greenwood

  He heard a key slide into the door outside, and as it did he popped the bulb against the wall, shattering it, leaving shards of jagged glass sticking out like teeth from the socket he held in his hand. He scooted up to the door just as it opened.

  The destroyed light bulb sat in his hand as if he had gripped a rosebud at the top of the stem. And like the stem, the cord hung down from his hand, stretching all the way behind him and up to the ceiling. He gripped it tightly, waiting.

  The door opened and the flash of light from outside was immediately interrupted by a shape filling the door. Without waiting even a second, John rammed the base of the shattered light bulb into the middle of the shape's chest.

  John heard the satisfying sizzle of live electricity from the light socket burning into his target, and that brought a feral smile to his lips. By itself, that was a painful but not deadly attack. The voltage from the outlet probably wasn’t enough to kill. But the remaining shards of glass stabbed into the man's chest like tiny knives. Although that wasn’t enough to kill either, the pain combined with the surprise of finding a free opponent was enough to keep him from striking back at John.

  "Teach you to kick me when I’m down!" he yelled.

  Unfortunately, the man on the receiving end of his electrical assault wasn't the man who had kicked him. Over the shoulder of his victim John saw Carlos, eyes wide in disbelief, reaching for a gun.

  John threw the body forward, dodging to the side as the light socket pulled free from the chest. The man – corpse or just wounded, John wasn't sure – flew into Carlos, and knocked him to the ground. The gun went off, and the bullet ricocheted off the cement ceiling.

  It never occurred to John that he might have been in danger from that. Still driven by rage at his beating, he charged forward, wielding the chair arm as a club. Out the door, his foot flew savagely out and connected with Carlos's head. He kicked again, then again, and again. He sent his foot at the other man’s head once or twice too, for good measure.

  He finally stopped kicking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had no idea whether Carlos was unconscious or dead, but he wasn't moving and that was just fine with John.

  John shook his head to clear it. Eventually, someone would come looking for Carlos. When they came, John didn't want to be around.

  Escaping wasn't just about his personal safety. The man who had come with Carlos earlier – the man who had left just before Carlos beat him while he was tied up – that man was a regular at the Neon. That man usually sat with Mike.

  John wasn't sure what to make of that. Over the past couple of days, he'd become pretty tight with the Congressman. But not tight enough to be one hundred percent certain Vincent was one of the good guys. Birds of a feather, he thought. Mike was buddies with a guy who'd stood there and ordered him drugged.

  At best, Mike had been duped and needed a warning. At worst, he was in this too, and Kathy was in real trouble. Someone in this whole mix was lying. And until he knew for sure, John wasn’t trusting anyone but himself and Kathy. That meant he had to get to her.

  Not sure where he was or how to get to Kathy, the only thing he knew was that he had to get out of here.

  It was a big, open room, like a storage room. The place was poorly lit and cluttered with boxes. The closet where he'd been held was at one end of the room, and the two bodies lay on the floor in a heap in front of that door, seeping minor quantities of blood. At the opposite end of the room from his closet, John saw another door. And lying discarded on one of the boxes were his pants and shirt.

  He ran to the pile of his clothing and got dressed, then tried the door. It opened into a bare staircase, and John started up. At the first landing he tried the door, and found it unlocked.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mike and Kathy were just walking aimlessly when they saw Colleen running down the sidewalk toward them.

  "Where’s the fire, Colleen?" Kathy asked her roommate when they pulled even.

  "Guys, I did it!"

  Mike grabbed her hand. "Jakarta?"

  She nodded. "He’s sending a car for us! We’ve got to meet them in front of the hotel in …" she looked at her watch, "… fifty minutes!"

  "He’s actually meeting us?" Kathy asked. "He’s going to tell us about the flash drive?"

  Colleen nodded. "Yeah, really! He said he wanted the flash drive! Guys, we did it!"

  The three hugged, drawing stares from the other people on the street, but Mike pulled away. "Wait a sec, he’s coming here? You told him where we are?"

  "He already knew, Mike."

  "How’d he know?" Kathy asked.

  "It's a computer. They're not very good for privacy. As soon as most of us turn a web browser on, we're giving away location data."

  "Wait a minute, he’s got something on my laptop? Like a virus or something? No way, I have antivirus software."

  Colleen rolled her eyes. "Congressman, if you learn anything from this whole business, learn this: if it has a screen, someone's probably tracking you through it. But come on, we should get back to the hotel. We’ve got a car to meet in half an hour."

  The three turned around and started back.

  ***

  A dark gray Chevy Suburban pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn, and the passenger doors came open. Four men in dark suits emerged from the vehicle and formed up on the sidewalk. As one, they scanned the faces of nearby pedestrians. Finding nothing there of interest, they marched – as if they were a military unit in formation – into the Holiday. Three walked briskly through the lobby and boarded the elevator, selecting the second floor.

  The other walked up to the front desk clerk. "Is there a restroom nearby?" he asked, and got a nod in the general direction of the facilities. He thanked the clerk and headed over there.

  He was glad to discover that it offered a place from which he could watch the lobby yet avoid being seen by the clerk. In truth, asking for the facilities was just a ruse to put the clerk at ease. He and his team wanted no trouble until the proper time.

  After an appropriate wait, he emerged from his place and walked back over to the clerk. "Thanks," he said, a charming smile painted on his face. "Gotta wait down here while my partners meet with a client. Any chance there’s a newspaper machine nearby?"

  The clerk was a young girl who might have been prettier if she took it a little easier on the blush and eye shadow. She smiled at this very polite young man, wondering what kind of business he did, and whether he would ask her out. To encourage him, she offered her own newspaper.

  The encouragement didn’t work. He smiled and thanked her, then took a seat in the lobby and unfolded the paper.

  ***

  John had no idea how long he'd been running. When he recovered his clothes after knocking Carlos unconscious – perhaps killing him? – he'd neglected to strap on his watch. He'd remembered it about ten minutes later, but there was no way he was going back.

  Running away from the scene, John had had plenty of time to consider the situation. It was possible that he'd killed one or both of those men back at his cell. Unlikely, though, especially in Carlos' case. If John himself had survived a far worse beating, he had no doubt that Carlos would keep right on ticking. After all, he'd shown quite a propensity for staying alive.

  John’s escape from the makeshift basement cell led first into a brightly-lit corporate lobby. The moment he emerged from the stairs, the few employees who were working on Sunday took one look at his face and assumed the worst. True, he'd been bleeding from more than one wound and wore enough bruises for an entire hockey team. But John still thought their screams were a bit overly dramatic.

  It felt like traveling between two different worlds. One moment, he'd been in a poorly-lit, ominous basement where blood and bruises and torture all seemed to fit right in. One single flight of stairs, and in the next moment he'd been in a bustling corporate workplace, watching business people back away from him and gasp.

  Fortunately, several doorways led to the outside world, an
d John headed right for them. He ignored the shocked looks from people waiting for the elevators. The building did have a security guard who manned the entryway, though, and he walked toward John saying, "Sir? Sir, can I help you?"

  John would have preferred to ignore him, but eventually the guard walked right up to him and set a hand on his shoulder. "You OK, sir?" he'd asked. "Why don't you wait a sec while I get someone to look at those cuts?"

  John had wanted no part of that. He'd seen enough of how they treated people here. He'd broken free of the man's grip and bolted for the doorways, elbowing a few stunned workers out of his way.

  He'd emerged from the doors to find himself in a broad parking lot. Hondas, Toyotas, and Pontiacs spread out in front of him, and briefly John toyed with the idea of stealing one. But that guard had to be hot on his heels.

  He trotted out across the parking lot. As he left the lot and started jogging down the street, he saw a small, discreet sign identifying the owner: "Electron Guidewire."

  He might be able to hitch a ride on the parkway, John mused. But not looking like he did. He’d have to go by foot, at least until he could find a cab or a bus. And a cabbie stopping for him was just as iffy as any other driver, unless he found a place to clean up. He moved off to the north at a good running pace, hearing a shout behind him and knowing it must be the security guard.

  That had been some time ago. It felt like an hour, but John knew how time could play tricks on you under stress. For all he knew, he'd been running only fifteen minutes.

  He tried to keep the pace up, but every now and then he slowed down to a fast walk. John hadn't run the forty-yard dash since his days on the college gridiron, and this was hardly like running on a flat, well-groomed football field. Dressed as he was, he didn’t look like the average jogger, and John drew a few stares from other pedestrians. He ignored it all.

  All the businesses he passed identified themselves only with tiny signs and plaques that were hard to read as he ran past. But still, he'd seen enough to know the Electron Guidewire building was in the Northern Virginia suburbs of Washington D.C. Eventually he had hit the Leesburg Pike, and was now jogging on his way to McLean. Even all the way off the shoulder, the traffic still bothered him. The busy commercial strip yielded up a lot of exhaust fumes, which didn’t make breathing any easier. When he finally reached Tyson’s Corner, he turned onto the Chain Bridge Road, and headed up to McLean.

  But there was a lot of running in front of him first. John plodded along, wondering whether Mike knew what kind of jerk was paying for most of his drinks at the Neon.

  ***

  "So where are Jakarta’s people supposed to be taking us?" Kathy asked. She, Mike, and Colleen were on their way back to the hotel.

  "No idea," Colleen replied. "He’d barely tell me anything. The guy’s hyper-paranoid about law enforcement finding him – he’s still not sure whether we’re going to try to arrest him."

  "Jeez, that guy’s totally paranoid."

  "Not really, Kathy. The things that made him famous are mostly felonies. The guy we’re going to meet, the feds would give a lot of money to talk to. In fact, I think there’s a $100,000 reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction."

  Kathy gasped "Whoa, a hundred thousand bucks? Yet another chance to make a huge profit on this whole unpleasant business."

  "A shame you couldn’t have got the money from Carlos at the club," Michael threw in.

  "You heard him outside, Mike," Kathy replied. "Once I told him Colleen was trying to find out what was on it, he just wanted to kill me. Couldn’t take the risk that I’d found out, I guess. Besides, the way he treated me at your place later, I’m not giving that scumbag anything."

  Mike’s face crinkled up in a grimace and he turned his face away. "Agreed."

  She nodded. "Here’s hoping this ‘Jakarta’ person turns out to be better."

  ***

  Of the three men who had gone upstairs at the Holiday Inn, one held back to stand guard near the elevator. The other two went forward, looking for Mike and Kathy. Knowing about both the original and the second room rented when Colleen showed up, they selected the one Mike slept in first, and briefly conferred outside the door. Both drew .40 Glock semi-auto pistols from inside their jackets. With a nod, one stepped up to the door while the other stood back, leveling his pistol.

  The first man slid a card through the keycard slot, and watched the red light blink to green. He twisted the handle, threw open the door, and leapt to the side. As the door flew open and rebounded off the wall on the inside, the second man swept his pistol from side to side, looking for targets. There were none.

  Down in the lobby, one of the men flipped a page in his newspaper, but he wasn’t really reading it. His eyes shifted left to right, scanning the hotel’s entry for possible threats. Under his suit coat was a Glock just like the men upstairs carried. In his ear was a miniature radio – a wire ran down the sleeve of his shirt to a microphone for it strapped to his wrist. Now from the radio he heard the team upstairs check in.

  "Negative on the subjects, both rooms are empty. Four, keep your eyes peeled, they may be in the hotel somewhere. We’re coming down."

  The man in the lobby was number four of the team, and that was his call sign. As if scratching his chin, he raised his hand to his mouth and spoke into the mic. "Four acknowledges."

  Setting down his paper, he stood up and walked around the lobby. His eyes swept the room, eyeing all the faces. In the inside pocket of his suit were three photographs, but he didn’t need to take them out. He’d memorized the faces.

  ***

  Sam Franken acknowledged the radio call and stomped on the gas. His mind shifted into high gear just as his car did. Another homicide in the Georgetown area. Someone had called the dispatcher about two dead bodies this time, and this caller was staying at the scene to prevent the bodies from disappearing.

  Georgetown was normally a quiet area, in police terms. Three murders in less than a week was unheard of here. He checked the street sign as he turned a corner. Three murders in one block defied credibility.

  He double-parked his car in front of the house the dispatcher indicated, and stepped out. This house stood on a corner of Georgetown's Q Street. The area’s narrow town homes looked pretty darn familiar to Franken. Three nights ago, he'd been standing at the far corner of the same block listening to Kathy Kelver tell him she wasn't lying and she wasn't drunk, there had been a dead body there.

  The exterior light was on, bathing him in a small bubble of yellow glow that stopped at the front step. He walked up and in the door, to find a patrolman taping off areas inside. Almost immediately, a young woman approached him.

  "I’m so glad you're here!" she gushed before he'd said a word. "This place is creeping me out!"

  The reason was right under her feet, Franken saw: an elderly male, obviously dead, with a small hole through his forehead. His nearly bald pate was a sickly gray hue, swimming in a congealed pool of blood. His wire frame glasses had fallen off, sitting with one stem folded in beside his head.

  Franken saw a few dead bodies in the course of his job, so he handled the mess with aplomb. The young woman, on the other hand, was clearly queasy. "The other one's in here," she said.

  Franken followed her into the home's living room and met another dead body. This one was female, about the same age as the male in the hallway, still seated on her couch with her neck craned back at an awkward angle over the back of the flower-patterned couch. She, too, had a hole in her forehead.

  Franken asked the uniformed officer about the forensics team, and learned they’d arrive in about twenty minutes. Then he turned his attention to the woman who'd made the call.

  Short, just a bit on the pudgy side, with a few strands of her shoulder-length hair flying off at odd angles. Her "Georgetown University" sweatshirt hung loosely on a body too small for it. She wore no makeup that he could see. Still, she was much more pleasant to look at than the corpse on the couch. She in
troduced herself as Gina Cassone, which Franken wrote down.

  "How'd you find 'em?" he asked her.

  She walked out of the living room into the small, cozy kitchen. A collection of three bulbs under an elaborate lampshade hung from the ceiling, and someone's paintings of sailboats on calm blue oceans hung on the walls. They looked amateurish – Franken imagined one of the residents taking a class in oil paints, and hanging the results on her kitchen wall. The girl took a seat at the kitchen table and waved for him to do likewise. Waiting for the forensics guys to show up, Franken sat down to talk to her.

  "I rent the basement apartment below us," she said. "The Conroys had it listed with the off-campus housing service last spring, and I snapped it up when I found it. Reasonable rent, nice space – it was a real find. The only drawback was that for laundry I had to come up and share a machine in the main house. But I didn't mind that much, it’s better than having to walk to a Laundromat. It's been a great place to live. I’ve got no idea what I’ll do now that they're dead. Guess I'll have to move midyear, and that's really going to suck."

  Franken nodded. He could already tell how this story was going to end.

  "Anyway," the girl went on, "Earlier tonight I came up to do my laundry. I'd gotten to be pretty friendly with the Conroys over the past month or so, so I poked my head around the corner to see if they wanted to talk while the clothes got washed. That's when I saw Paul there." She inclined her head toward the male body in the hallway.

  "So naturally I freaked out, and ran to him to see if I could help. On the way there I caught sight of Linda on the couch, and that's when I really screamed. I ran right to the phone and called 911, and here you are."

  Franken nodded. The scene couldn't be clearer. Paul Conroy had opened the front door to a knocker and been shot in the head for his trouble. The same knocker had then entered the house and done away with Mrs. Conroy before she'd even gotten out of her seat. Why hadn't she risen in alarm at the sound of her husband being shot?