Jack, noncommittal, said, "Well, it's an interesting theory and we'll certainly follow it up."
"You do that," Dorinda said. "Just don't tell Raoul that it was me who put you on to him, okay?"
"Your confidentiality will be protected, just as we protect all our sources."
Jack stood up, indicating the interview was over. Dorinda's face lit up with a smile of genuine delight. "I just thought of something," she said.
"Oh? What's that?"
"With Vikki gone, that makes me the headliner!"
* * *
During her interview, redheaded Francine threw a different slant on things: "Dorinda had it bad for Raoul."
Jack said, "That's not what she says."
"She's kidding you, or herself," Francine scoffed. "She was real gone over the Caracas Romeo. Raoul's catnip to women, and he had Dorinda purring. But a guy like that is too good-looking to be good. Rich, too. He's a playboy; he's not going to settle for one woman. Besides, his family are big shots back in Venezuela; they'd never stand for their sonny boy marrying a Bourbon Street titty dancer."
Francine grinned, relishing her own malice. "Not that he was ever going to marry her anyway. He's not that dumb. That was Dorinda's fantasy — she is that dumb. To him, she was strictly for laughs. That goes for Vikki, too."
Jack said, "Did Raoul and Paz get along?"
"They palled around."
"I heard they had a falling out after Paz took Vikki away from Raoul."
"You must've heard that from Dorinda. What else is she going to say? She's just trying to save her face," Francine said. "Listen, friend, nobody could take any girl away from Raoul until he was good and done with her. Take it from one who knows."
"You were with Garros, too?"
"A lady never kisses and tells," Francine said, smirking. "Vikki had nothing to do with Raoul throwing over Dorinda. He was tired of her long before he ever laid eyes on Vikki. He dumped her at least a month before Vikki began her engagement here."
Francine went on, eyes bright with anticipation of her next revelation. "Raoul and Paz were pals. Bosom chums. When Raoul got tired of Dorinda, he passed her along to Marty. Then Vikki came along, and Raoul gave her a big play, until he got tired of her. Then he passed her along to Paz."
Jack said, "But Raoul stopped coming in the club around then?"
"But definitely. He had bigger fish to fry. Don't you read the society pages, chum?" She gave Jack the once-over and said, "No, I guess not. You're not the type. But you'd have to live in a tree somewhere not to know that Raoul's giving a big play to that stuck-up Keehan bitch."
"I may have heard something about it," Jack allowed. "That's Susan Keehan, the heiress?"
"The very same. Talk about being full of yourself! She makes Raoul look publicity shy. She may not be built like Vikki or a master of sexpertise like Dorinda, but she's got her share of the Keehan family fortune to bring to the table. With a prize catch like that on the hook, why would he bother fishing around these waters? Especially since he'd already netted his limit here."
Jack nailed it down. "So as far as you know, there was no enmity between Raoul and Paz?"
"The reverse," Francine said. "If you ask me, Raoul was kind of a high-class pimp for Marty. Not that Marty can't get his own girls if he wants them; Lord knows he's not shy. But Raoul's a talent scout for him. He'd try out the merchandise, give it a test drive, and when the ashtrays were full, turn it over to Paz. Something a little sick about the way they trade girlfriends, but it takes all kinds."
A happy thought struck her. "Hey, who knows? Maybe after Raoul gets tired of the Keehan girl, he'll pass her along to Marty, too," Francine said.
A uniformed cop entered the club, spotted Dooley, and hurried over to him. He passed along some information to Dooley and went back outside.
Dooley crossed to Jack and Pete, said, "Got some news that might interest you. Looks like we've got a lead on Paz."
5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
Top field agents such as Jack Bauer and Pete Malo were the tip of the antennae of the military-intelligence entity that was CTU.
Just as the human organism produces antibodies designed to seek out and destroy opportunistic infections and diseases, the American nation had created in CTU a specialized defense mechanism to deter, seek out, and destroy the global pandemic of hostile terrorist cells inflamed by murderous fanaticism and empowered with the awesome overkill potential of weapons of mass destruction. CTU was a national resource with worldwide reach.
From the moment that Vikki Valence had first contacted the CTU public tips hotline and uttered the key word Beltran, the agency had begun focusing its formidable array of institutional instruments and abilities on the case. Unfortunately, the ceaseless and pervasive threat level directed from all corners of the globe against the United States prevented the agency from channeling more than a part of its energies to the developing incident.
As with all other U.S. civilian and military outfits in the new age of the War on Terror, CTU's mandate and responsibilities exceeded the human power and budget allocated it by a government whose treasury was already stretched dangerously thin from the demands of meeting its overwhelming superpower commitments.
The early morning massacre on Bourbon Street had further prioritized the Beltran affair in CTU's caseload, allowing a greater allocation of time, technology, and personnel to the matter. The ultraviolence of the would-be assassins, and the involvement of hostile Venezuelan and communist Cuban elements, threw what was already a red-flagged incident into overdrive.
* * *
In the immediate aftermath of the shootout, Pete Malo had used his cell phone camera to photograph the dead men and woman, capturing each in full-frontal and profile views. CTU already had photos of Baca and Espinosa on file, but he'd photographed them in death, too, in the interests of completeness.
The information was instantly sent to CTU's Gulf Coast Regional Center for processing by the technicians and operators of the facility's Analytical Division.
The images were examined using the latest facial recognition and identity imaging software for purposes of identification.
From here, the images were also uploaded to CTU Headquarters in Washington, D.C., for further analysis by the agency's linked national network of supercomputers — themselves cross-linked to the databanks of the FBI, CIA, NSA, the Pentagon, and all other associated intelligence services who might be able to throw some light on the case.
As House Committee on Un-American Activities ace investigator James McClain had once observed, "These are the mills that grind so very fine and not so very slow." And that was in the precomputer age of filing cabinets and index cards.
The bulk of hands-on investigative chores in the Beltran affair fell to CTU's Gulf Coast Regional Center under the leadership of Director Cal Randolph. Within minutes of being notified of the Golden Pole massacre, Center dispatched teams to secure the site and subject it to forensic analysis.
Long before police investigators had arrived, CTU agents had photographed and videotaped the crime scene from all relevant angles.
The ambushers' utility truck and Paz's armored limo were impounded and towed away to the Center, to be exhaustively examined by mechanics and technicians.
It was important that the limo be whisked away before any members of the New Orleans branch of the Venezuelan Consulate could arrive at the scene to claim possession of the vehicle. The consulate as yet had received no official notification from U.S. government agencies of the attack, CTU having judged that any "premature" notification would be counterproductive. For the same reason, the U.S. State Department had also been kept out of the loop, to prevent their meddling from hampering the investigation.
Both decisions had been enthusiastically endorsed by high-level White House national security advisors.
All weapons found at the scene were collected and inventoried. One fact immediately stood out
: all the attackers' weapons had their serial numbers intact and unaltered; no attempt had been made to obliterate them. This indicated that the weapons were "sterile," that is, probably stolen and without any paperwork or history to directly link them to the users.
All the same, the serial numbers were input into the CTU computer net for identification and determination of point of origin. Even stolen weapons could furnish potentially valuable clues for triangulation with other bits of evidence to build a profile of the assassin team and, more important, its sponsors.
CTU moved early on to secure the club building and prevent its occupants from leaving. The site was searched from top to bottom to ensure that Vikki Valence was not secreted somewhere on the premises, alive or dead. Results were negative. Wherever she was, she was gone from the Golden Pole.
A forensics team focused on her apartment, inspecting and inventorying its contents, and taking away any material that might prove germane to the investigation. This included several boxes of personal material, most of which was publicity-related photos and press releases, but also including several stacks of private correspondence and fan letters.
During Vikki's initial contact with the CTU hotline, she'd identified herself and where she could be found. Intentionally or not, she'd neglected to supply a cell phone number. The source of the call had been tracked to a pay telephone located several blocks away from the Golden Pole.
A computerized search of the customer lists of various telecom company records identified her cell phone provider and through it, her telephone number. This gold mine of information provided the ability to contact her directly, as well as to track her movements by way of the cell phone towers and substations she used to make her cell phone calls.
But this major lead was neutralized by the simple fact that, from the moment the number was identified until the present time, her phone was switched off. She might have turned if off deliberately for reasons of her own, she might have misplaced the cell and fled without it, or she might have met with foul play and, like the phone itself, been switched off — perhaps permanently.
Until it was turned on, the cell was no more than a blind alley.
A copy of her phone records had been acquired by CTU; her incoming and outgoing calls were being analyzed to build up a profile of her contacts and associates, all of whom would be investigated as part of the ongoing search.
The Golden Pole and wider Bourbon Street area were monitored by a variety of private and official surveillance devices, including police traffic cameras mounted at key intersections, monitors posted at high-crime areas to discourage street prostitution and drug dealing, and security cameras serving as anti-theft devices at stores, shops, and parking lots.
Center was in the process of accessing the videotaped records of such cameras that were in operation at prime locations during the relevant time periods.
After being interviewed by Jack and Pete at the Golden Pole, Drake Shelburne, Dorinda, Francine, and Troy the bartender were escorted by CTU agents to the Center facility across the river in Algiers, for further and more extensive debriefing.
This was an application of the well-known fact that detaining in custody reluctant or hostile witnesses and persons of interest tended to wonderfully improve their memories and powers of recall.
The mill wheels were turning.
* * *
Sisters of Mercy Hospital
New Orleans
Thurlow J. Meade, forty-five, stood a few inches short of six feet and a few pounds short of the two hundred mark. He had a big gut but was still hard and strong. Even the gut, a kettle belly, was taut and solid.
He was a native of New Orleans, a lifelong denizen. He could take care of himself; he'd worked on the docks for all his adult life, and you didn't last on the waterfront if you couldn't stand the gaff. By some (including himself), he was regarded as a pretty tough character.
He was currently employed as a forklift operator in a riverside warehouse.
Normally the warehouse was open on Saturday, for a half day, from six A.M. till noon. Not today. Today it was closed, because of the threat from Hurricane Everette.
Meade was of two minds as to how to respond to the oncoming storm.
Several years back, at the last possible moment, he'd heeded his wife's urgings that they get out of New Orleans before Katrina hit. They'd been safely north on high ground, staying with relatives, when eighty percent of New Orleans had been submerged.
That was one narrowly escaped nightmare not to be soon forgotten, and went into the plus side of the scale weighing the benefits this time of staying or going.
On the staying side was the fact that since then, there had been no catastrophic storm. This season, the city had already escaped being struck by two imminent hurricanes that at the last minute veered off to make landfall somewhere else.
Both times Meade, his wife, and the family dog had piled into his pickup truck (the bed of which was laden with their belongings, wrapped in waterproof tarps) and taken it north, along with thousands of other evacuees fleeing the city. It had been no picnic, enduring endless traffic jams that took hours to travel miles, not to mention the hardship and discomfort of having to take refuge with their kinfolk. Who no matter how they tried to extend the welcome wagon, couldn't help but make Meade and family feel like poor relations.
Two false alarms in a row had Meade deciding this time on staying put and sticking it out. As Everette neared, his resolve began wavering.
The window of opportunity was closing; today, Saturday, was the last day on which to make good an escape from New Orleans. The last two trips, the worst he'd had to suffer was another "damned, time-wasting, backbreaking inconvenience" of the type he'd swear was sending him to an early grave. But if he stuck, and Everette proved to be the real deal, well, then he'd be taking his and his family's lives into his hands.
Because New Orleans was in worse shape now than it had been before Katrina. The resources were less, and so were the reinforcements. The gangs were bigger, bolder, and more arrogant; violent crime and killings were way up; and one could only imagine the orgy of lawlessness and sadistic brutality that another major storm would evoke.
Early this Saturday morning, then, Meade had gotten into his car, a late model gray sedan, his pickup truck being in the process of being loaded yet again with the family possessions, such as they were.
His goal was a greasy spoon diner where he'd pick up some fried egg sandwiches and a couple of thermoses of coffee to fortify himself for the exodus. The diner was located on a little-traveled byway riverward of Bourbon Street. Meade left his wife still stowing some gear in the pickup while he headed downtown.
It was a little past six A.M. Meade had the air conditioner in his car on and the windows down. The air conditioner lacked the muscle to make a dent in this oily, seething, suffocating air. Sweat started from his every pore.
Driving along an approach to Bourbon, he halted for a red light. His car was second in line, sandwiched between a tan minivan ahead and a compact car behind.
He was muttering to himself about the heat and humidity and not paying attention when suddenly a figure loomed alongside him in the driver's side.
A glimmer of movement on his left came simultaneously with the driver's side door being yanked open. A hand reached in, grabbed Meade by the back of the neck, and hauled him bodily out of the car.
His car was idling in drive. With his foot now off the brake pedal, the machine rolled forward several feet before bumping hard into the bumper of the minivan in front of it, which was also halted for the red light. Metal and plastic crunched, glass broke, and Meade's car bumped to a stop.
Meade lay on the asphalt, dazed, winded, his elbows and knees scraped and his side and hip bruised. Shaking his head to clear it, he started to raise himself up on his elbows.
Before he could do more, a gun loomed in front of his face. And not just any gun. A monster gun, a mini-machine gun whose big-bore muzzle was staring him straigh
t in the face.
The gun was in the hand of a medium-sized, stocky man whose head looked like a pineapple. A pineapple with red eyes. They were the only live, moving things in his rough-textured visage.
Most likely, he'd decided on the sedan because it looked faster than the minivan.
The minivan's driver started to get out to inspect the damage to his vehicle from the fender-bender, until he saw the man with the gun. He froze.
The gunman hopped into the driver's seat of the gray sedan. He threw the car into reverse, backing up hard into the car behind him, smashing the headlights and front grille of the latter and crumpling the rear of the sedan.
He was making room for his exit, pushing the car behind him backward. He executed a rubber-burning U-turn, wheeling across the yellow line into the opposite lane.
Meade got his feet under him, scrambling to get out of the way of his own stolen car coming at him.
The carjacker whipped the machine around 180 degrees. Tires yelped like a dog with a stepped-on tail as the gray sedan whipped around and headed away down the opposite side of the street.
It turned right at the next intersection, scooting around the corner and out of sight.
* * *
Such was the tale told by Meade himself, while he was being treated in the emergency room of a nearby hospital.
He'd been there for several hours already, in crowded corridors filled with screaming kids, groaning pain sufferers, and scared-looking loved ones, relatives, and friends. Doctors, nurses, and orderlies moved with purpose along the halls, flanking wheeled patient-laden stretchers along linoleum-floored corridors.
Hospital security guards (unarmed) grouped in clusters at strategic points along the halls; there were also uniformed NOPD cops stationed there to help enforce the peace in this time of prestorm jitters.
24 Declassified: Storm Force 2d-7 Page 7
