Death of Secrets

by Bowen Greenwood

  "Did you hear the shots?" Franken asked.

  The girl shook her head. "No, but I'm afraid I'm kinda into my music. I'm usually listening to something with the headphones on."

  The cop nodded and sighed. There'd be a lot of legwork in this, knocking on neighbors' doors and asking if they'd heard shots. But none of that put him any closer to knowing why the burglar had been willing to kill two people to get into this house.

  Franken got up and paced. It would be impossible to tell whether anything had been taken without a full search of the house, but perhaps something obvious would present itself. "Do you know if they had a safe?" he asked the girl.

  She nodded. "They offered to let me store valuables in there if I wanted. But I don't really have anything that would be worth putting in a safe."

  "Know where it is?"

  She nodded and stood up. "Upstairs in the bedroom. I'll show you."

  He followed her up the narrow staircase, catching a belt loop on the end of the banister at the start. He grumbled. Everything in Georgetown was built very narrow. For a man of Franken's girth, it was an inconvenience.

  "They showed me this when I moved in," she said. "Very trusting people, but I guess I look pretty harmless. They thought I might want to store some stuff in it, and if I did I guess I'd need to know. Actually, they gave me a tour of the whole house when I moved in. Seemed kind of weird, you know? All I wanted to do was live in the basement. But I figured it never hurts to be on good terms with the landlord, so I took the tour."

  Sam Franken's mental picture of the Conroys as a friendly elderly couple was solidifying. For a couple who would show a renter where their safe was, it was no surprise they'd open the door when someone knocked, even when it was a stranger. The surprise was that they'd survived so long in the city, but then, as he knew quite well, Georgetown was one of the safest places to live.

  The staircase ended at a landing with three doors. Gina pointed at the doors in turn, naming them. "Bathroom, spare bedroom, and the master bedroom," she said, opening the last one. "The safe's in here."

  Franken walked in behind her and entered the room. It was decorated in the same homey style as the kitchen, with homemade oil paintings, needlepoint, and embroidery hung on the wall. The safe was off in a corner next to a small television, and Gina walked over to it. "I don't know the combination," she said, "but here it is."

  The door was closed. Franken knew an experienced safe cracker could have gotten it open and closed it again without leaving a sign. Nonetheless, it certainly gave the appearance of remaining secure.

  The bed, however, was a different story. The cover – which looked handmade – was askew instead of neatly made up. Franken had a feeling that this was a couple who made their bed every morning. More to the point, though, the bed was pushed up against the wall, and deep indentations in the carpet showed where the legs of the bed had stood for many years. Clearly, it had been moved out of position. The surface of the bed was nearly level with a windowsill. The window was still open. He didn't want to disturb the crime scene, but by standing at the foot of the bed he could nonetheless look out the window. Why had it been pushed there?

  He leaned over to get a better look. The street below him was pretty quiet at the moment, with most residents indoors, either studying or watching television. Cars lined both sides, and several trees pushed up through blank spaces of dirt left in the sidewalk. A lone empty can rattled a bit in the light wind. But one thing leapt out at Franken right away.

  From this window he had a clear line of sight to the place where Kathy Kelver said she found the body.

  He turned back to Gina. "You heard nothing at all unusual two nights ago?"

  "Two nights ago? You think they were shot that long ago?"

  Franken nodded. "I'm thinking probably, though we won't know for sure until the forensics people do their work."

  She shrugged. "Well, I still didn't hear anything like a gunshot. But really really late that night – actually early in the morning – I thought I heard a girl screaming. I sorta wasn't sure what I should do, you know? So I didn't go look immediately. But after a minute I got up and looked out the window, but no one was there."

  Franken's thoughts immediately turned to Kathy's story about finding the body. She'd claimed she screamed when she saw it, right?

  "About what time was that?"

  "Not sure," Gina replied, "But after one in the morning. I remember having looked at the clock at 1:05 and wondering why I was still awake."

  Franken turned back to the bed and looked out the window. This was starting to look like something really unusual.

  Premeditated murder was by far the least common of that crime's many faces. Most killings were crimes of passion, committed with a knife, bare hands, or whatever blunt object the enraged killer could lay his hands on. When guns were involved, they were usually fired from close enough range that one could find gunpowder burns on the victim.

  The exceptions were drug and gang related shootings. But those were often targets of opportunity, spraying an entire neighborhood with bullets just to kill one member of a rival gang.

  This now had the look of something entirely different.

  Franken cast his eyes around the room and found what he was looking for. A small brass cartridge rested on top of the pillows at the head of the bed.

  The officer grimaced. Someone had broken into this house, and killed its occupants, all for one single purpose: to lay on this bed and take advantage of a uniquely clear shot at that spot of ground. And they'd hit somebody who happened to walk there, at least according to Kathy Kelver.

  But of course, he hadn't just "happened" to walk there, had he? Whoever had picked this spot wouldn't have bothered if they hadn't known they'd be able to get their victim here.

  Franken had to wait here for the forensic team. But once they arrived, he knew where he'd start his door to door work.

  ***

  Michael held the door open while Kathy and Colleen walked into the hotel, then followed them in. Ahead of them was a man in a dark suit, wearing dark glasses despite being inside. He had his hand up near his mouth, and his lips were moving. Mike had seen the same thing numerous times before, generally by Secret Service agents when he was at a political function attended by the President. Whoever the man was, he had a radio.

  "Um, Colleen?" He began. "Should this guy we’re supposed to meet come looking for us inside the hotel?"

  "No, why?" She asked, not stopping. "He’s supposed to meet us in front of the front door."

  "Then stop and come with me."

  "Michael, what…"

  He grabbed Kathy’s shoulder and tugged, manually turning her direction. "Colleen, come on!"

  She turned around to see Michael heading back out the front door, rapidly breaking into a run. She muttered, "What the…?" but then she looked back where she’d been headed. A man in a dark suit was heading rapidly toward her, pushing his way through the small crowd in the lobby and reaching inside his suit coat. Colleen had seen enough movies that that last behavior was inherently threatening to her. She dashed to keep up with Michael.

  When she reached the other two she panted, "Um, there’s a guy back there who looked like he was pulling a gun."

  Mike said, "Come on, keep moving. Even if they’re going to shoot us they probably won’t want to do it through a crowd. Let’s try to keep people between us and him."

  Out on the street, he pushed his way through shoppers and businessmen getting off duty for the day. As the crowd protested in a myriad of voices, Kathy looked over her shoulder and shrieked. "Mike, there are more of them!"

  The Congressman quickened his pace, and the two girls sped up. Colleen looked at her watch and asked, "What are we going to do? We’ve got only five minutes ‘til we’re supposed to meet Jakarta’s people out front!"

  Over his shoulder, Mike replied, "How do we know these people aren’t Jakarta’s?"

  "Why would he send someone in here when we were comin
g right out anyway?"

  "Who knows? One way or another we have to lose this crowd before we can meet them."

  They pushed their way into a restaurant, drawing alarmed cries from the hostess as they scampered back into the dining area without waiting to be seated. Looking over her shoulder, Kathy saw a man in a black suit elbowing his way through the same crowd. "Mike! Behind us!"

  "Hope there’s another exit to this place," he replied, and pressed on through the tables and chairs.

  Kathy felt her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. "Mike! What do we do?"

  "Follow me," he replied. "This is going to seem crazy."

  He elbowed his way to the very back of the room, drawing protests from early diners, and breathed a quick prayer of relief when he saw the door to the kitchen. Mike charged through it, holding Kathy’s hand and pulling her along. The smells of food preparation hit them.

  Looking back as Colleen came through the door, Kathy saw the man in the black suit scarcely more than ten feet away.

  A cook shouted at them to get out, but Mike just kept on moving. Kathy and Colleen followed not too far behind. In only moments, Mike reached the back of the kitchen and got lucky a second time. There was a service door leading out to the alley and he took it, leaving behind the loud retorts of the kitchen staff.

  He extended a hand to pull Kathy the rest of the way through the door. Colleen followed right behind her. Ignoring curious glances from indigents relaxing in the alley, Mike sprinted for the far end, yelling, "Come on, we’ve got to get as far as we can while we’re out of their sight!"

  They rounded the corner out of the alley and returned to a normal walking pace, trying not to call attention to themselves. Mike led them back toward the street with their hotel on it, panting to regain some of his breath.

  "Come on!" Colleen shouted. "We’ve got to get back to the front of the hotel!"

  She pulled into the lead of their little group, and bolted for the front door. Kathy and Mike ran behind her, and collided with her back when she stopped. In front of them they saw a black limousine parked with the engine running, and a young, fit, man leaning up against the door. His slacks, shoes, and long-sleeve T-shirt were all the same shade of black. He saw them coming, looked at his gold wristwatch, and asked, "Colleen Christina?"

  "Yeah," she replied in between pants. "And friends." She reached for the back seat door and yanked it open. "We kind of need to step on it," she added. "Somebody’s following us."

  Kathy saw the driver hurry around to his door as Michael followed Colleen into the car. She was watching the door for men in suits when Mike grabbed her and pulled her in after him. Just as she pulled the car door shut, she saw the hotel door open, and one of the men come out.

  She shrieked, "There they are!" and the driver of their limo stepped on the gas. Kathy fell backward into her seat and gave another yell.

  Colleen turned backward and stared out the rear window, looking for signs of a tail. Kathy took a moment to collect herself and then said to no one in particular, "Whoa. Hacking must pay pretty well."

  A leather bench seat wrapped around where the left side door should have been, making the right door the only way in or out. A TV in the back of the partition between the driver’s seat and the passenger compartment showed a local news anchor frowning sadly at some tragic report. The window between the two compartments was down, and the driver looked back in response to Kathy’s observation.

  "Don’t get too comfy back there, folks. If you’re being followed, we’ll need to switch cars before I take you anywhere important."

  "And we are being followed," Colleen called out, having caught sight of a suburban weaving dangerously in and out of traffic behind them.

  "Roger," the driver said, and stepped on the gas. Kathy screamed again when the limo wormed its way into a gap in traffic that actually looked a few inches shorter than the car.

  ***

  The NSA wasn't exactly a place that cleared out when the union bell rang. Still, being in on Sunday meant a slightly easier workload. Nathan Jacobs leaned back in his chair and gave himself a few moments of relaxation. His was a fast-paced, hard-working office, and law enforcement wasn't a field with predictable challenges. He could make whatever plan he wanted, but by the close of business his time would have been claimed by a dozen different minor crises he'd never expected.

  So it had been today, too. Nathan’s numerous cases combined with outside developments to keep his mind going all day. But now a rare free moment surfaced, giving him time to think.

  What he thought of was the fact that he'd heard nothing from Michael since checking him into that hotel.

  Nate picked up the phone and gave him a call on the new, temporary phone. True, he'd warned the Congressman and his young friend – about using it too much. But the one thing he could be sure of was that no one had tapped the NSA's phones. He felt safe making the call.

  He dialed and got no answer. Frowning, he left a voice mail.

  He busied himself for about an hour, reading reports of new developments in the computer security field. Then he tried again, and still got no answer.

  Nathan set down the phone and took off his black glasses to twiddle them between his fingers. Idly he rubbed at a small scratch on the left lens. All kinds of things could explain Mike's failure to answer the phone. They might be out getting dinner. They might be out for a walk. He chuckled as he admitted – with his fingers crossed on his friend's behalf – that they might even be in the middle of an intimate moment and not inclined to answer the phone.

  But they could also be in trouble, and that had Nathan worried.

  "I should have opened a file," he said aloud, not for the first time. His friend's reluctance to have official involvement really bothered him. Nathan Jacobs worked for the U.S. Government. He was a part of the intelligence community. With evidence that some kind of intelligence operation or crime was almost certainly being committed, his duty was to report it. But that would splash Vincent's name, and that of his new friend, all over the newspapers, possibly ending his political career.

  He chewed on his lower lip. "I put them there," he said aloud, adding a profanity on the end. That made him responsible. And that made up his mind.

  Jacobs pushed his chair away from his desk, put his glasses back on, and walked out of the office. He told his secretary that he'd be available by mobile phone if needed, and walked out of the Hoover building, heading for the Holiday Inn in McLean.

  ***

  Franken’s lips stretched tight over his mouth. The kid he was about to talk to knew something about Kathy Kelver and her dead body, of that he was certain. The punk had been away from his apartment when he had been called to the scene the first time, but he was home now, and he was going to talk. Franken grunted.

  He stood for a minute or two outside the townhouse, looking down at the basement entrance. There was a small, ground level half-window through which he could see that the light was on, and someone was moving around inside. The curtain was pulled, so he couldn't make out a face, but at least he knew he wouldn't be waking the guy up.

  Franken went down the stairs leading to the lower entryway, and knocked on the door. There was a moment when the activity in the apartment ceased, and he envisioned the man sitting there, wondering who was at his door. Eventually, though, a face appeared at the door, tugged aside the curtain to peek out, saw his uniform, and opened the door a crack.

  "Yes?"

  "Detective Sam Franken, Metro PD. May I speak with you for a moment?"

  All he could see of the man so far was his face – narrow, dark circles under the eyes, and hollow cheekbones. He looked gaunt.

  The door shut again, Franken heard the sound of a chain lock being opened, and then it opened again all the way. "What do you want?" the man asked.

  The rest of his body matched his face. The man was rail-thin and looked like he couldn't afford food. He wore only the thinnest fuzz of hair around his head, as if he was a new
recruit and the Marine Corps barber had been especially zealous. He was clad in a T-shirt and camouflage pants.

  "May I come in?" Franken asked.

  "Do you have a search warrant?"

  Franken shook his head. "No, but then I don't want to search the place. I just need your help with a homicide investigation."

  The man – he really looked more boyish – stuck out his hand. "Let me see your badge."

  Franken sighed, then unclipped his badge from his belt and passed it over. TV cop shows made everyone an amateur lawyer. "Look up MPD in the book and call to check the number if you want," he grumbled.

  In the end, it wasn't necessary. The youth stepped aside to allow Franken to enter the house, and closed the door behind him. Then he leaned up against it and crossed his arms over his chest. "What homicide?"

  "First, can I get your name please?"

  Terrance Gilmore introduced himself, and Franken noted down his name and description. Then the youth repeated his question.

  "The one outside your door two nights ago," was the detective's answer.

  Gilmore's eyes widened, then narrowed. "I thought that turned out to be a false alarm."

  Franken shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. But I thought you were gone that night. I knocked on your door and got no answer. How'd you know it was a false alarm?"

  The man looked left, then right, then at his feet before saying, "You know, it's a neighborhood, people talk. That's just what I heard."

  Franken looked at him long and hard before going on. "Somebody got shot right on your doorstep and died from it. Were you expecting anyone?"

  A shake of the head. "He wasn't any friend of mine."

  He almost laughed. He'd never told the kid the victim was male. In fact, none of his neighbors had seen the body either, just Kathy, so none of them would have reason to know it was male.