by Randall Wood
“If they want to keep working for me, they will,” the chief replied. “Plenty of people waiting in line for their job here in this little burb. Case you didn’t notice, we like it kinda quiet here. The sooner the reporters leave, the sooner the phone calls to the station stop.”
“Sounds good. Who else knows about the letter, besides you and your crew?”
“Just that lieutenant and a couple of his boys. The fact that it exists—not the content.”
“Okay. Can you talk to him and his men for me?”
“I think I can get the word across.” The chief smiled. He was a good ten years senior to the Bureau man, but the man was tactful and had shown he knew his job. The chief had to respect that. The fact that he asked Sanchez to deliver the no-leaks lecture, instead of doing it himself, showed some professional courtesy. Sanchez decided he’d really lay it hard to the boys. He suddenly didn’t want to let this man down.
• • •
Sydney smiled at the men around the car as she walked into the garage. What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this—it was on all their faces. Something that she was probably never going to get used to.
“Sydney Lewis?” A tall skinny blond man with an FBI badge on his belt walked forward and stretched out a gloved hand.
“Yes?”
“Mel Dexter, Orlando office. Mr. Deacon said you were coming. Good to know he has such faith in me.”
Sydney started to reply, but the goofy grin on his face told her that he was just joking. She grabbed his hand and shook it. “Thanks. Actually, I was hoping you could work with me on this. Are you very busy down here?”
“A few things pending, but I think we can make some room for you. I have the lab standing by to receive things; so far it’s been a straightforward mess.”
Mel turned to the car that T. Addicot had been in, and his demeanor went from jokester to professional with one word.
“Up to now we have a basic rifle wound to the head. Bullet entered through the open driver’s side window and struck the victim just behind the left ear. It then traversed the base of the skull and blew clean through the brain stem, before exiting out the right ear. It then struck the driver’s nine-iron, which was lying in the passenger seat, and left the car by way of the passenger-side windshield. Doesn’t get any quicker than that. Your shooter is a surgeon.”
“Nine-iron, huh?”
“Yup. Nice new set of Pings on the passenger side. Evidently, one of the drawbacks of the new Mercedes is a lack of trunk space; must be easier to just park them up front.”
“Bullet?”
“Not yet, still looking at the scene, but it’s a big area. And the round still had a lot of energy, despite the head and the club. Could be a while to find it, and even if we do, the nine-iron probably distorted it beyond any usability. Gotta try, though. We shot several rolls before we moved the body; should have them for you shortly. Not very pretty pictures.”
“I can imagine,” Sydney replied, grabbing her ponytail before sticking her head in the car to survey the blood pattern. “Looks like just the one round. Lots of gray matter on the right side of the interior.” She pulled her head out with a sigh.
“Well, let’s get started.”
• • •
Larry hated using an interpreter. He always felt that his questions were being edited right in front of him, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Plus, it doubled the time of every interview. It had taken fewer than ten minutes to see that the kid was useless as a witness. It would take a few weeks of head shrinking to get anything useful. The victim’s wife was out of town, New York, according to the maid. Evidently, the marriage was on a downward spiral: if one was in town, the other wasn’t.
The maid knew next to nothing about T. and his business dealings, but she confirmed that the golf game was a regular thing and rarely missed. She reported that Mr. Addicot had been quite happy this morning, and that he had even been polite to her, despite his coffee being late. The golf buddies, all lawyers of course, were of little help. Mel’s people were grilling them at the time, but Larry expected nothing from them. The construction crews were waiting at their site to be questioned, but the foreman had told them that no one had been in that area since it had been surveyed. He was unsure if the stake belonged to them. He saw no reason for it to be there, but he was consulting their plans to confirm. The foreman was being especially cooperative. While his dozer crews were all union employees, the crews he hired to clear away the brush were mostly illegals—and he didn’t want INS to pay him a visit.
Larry needed a break. He motioned for the interpreter, one of Mel’s people, to keep going, and he wandered down the hall to the late T. Addicot’s home office. Dave was going through the man’s papers before T’s wife arrived sometime in the next few hours.
“Anything?”
“No, lot of red flags though. Need a warrant to get it all, and it’ll take months to process and put it together. His taxes alone are way off. This guy has so many enemies I don’t know where I would start. Any luck on your end?”
“Not really; just more of the same. The wife will be in tonight on the man’s plane. From what the maid and gardener have to say, they don’t see too much of each other.”
“A divorce was in the works.” Dave held up a file. “Looks like negotiations are done; all that was left was the signing. It’s dated over a month ago. Looks like she’s getting a good deal to me, must have kept it quiet, save face and all that.”
“Find a will?”
“No, it’s probably at his lawyers. He’s been divorced before, so I’m sure he’s covered his ass and assets. With two teenage kids, I’m sure they get the pile when he’s gone—not her. I’ll verify that tomorrow. Already set up the meeting.”
“Good. Okay, back to Spanish 101 for me. Jack wants an update at nine from everybody.”
“Okay.” Dave was already into a printout of the man’s last case.
• • •
“Well, tell me what we have so far. Syd?” It was 9 p.m. and Jack had them all in the FBI’s Orlando office. The table was covered with legal pads, cold drinks, jackets, and ties. A bottle of aspirin was making the rounds.
“Our shooter is a good one. One shot to the junction of the left occipital and temporal bones with a large caliber bullet. The bullet blew through the brain stem and the cerebellum and exited out the other side, taking a good portion of the brain with it. It then struck a golf club and left the vehicle. Bullet is still out there. All of this from over two hundred yards out. Death doesn’t come much quicker than that. Evidence of only one shot. Looks like the victim was out of the shooter’s view after the shot.
“A Remington .308 was found in a fire about fifty yards from the shooter’s position. The barrel was bent to the point that it is unusable for lab comparison. Three shells were found in the fire. I believe one was our delivery round, and the other two were left in the fire to cook off. Should have chamber marks on all three, for what it’s worth.
“The fire looks to hold what’s left of a one-piece set of camouflage coveralls, a gallon milk jug, some type of net-like material, and a wide-brimmed camouflage hat. We also have a glob of melted latex; our guy wore gloves. We’re still looking, but so far no hair or fibers at the shooter’s position. The tracks look like a running shoe—should have a match to size and brand in a couple of hours. Looks at least a size 11 to me, so I’m guessing at this point our shooter is male. No other recent tracks for fifty yards in all directions. The stake belongs to the construction crew, but it’s out of place—probably transplanted by our shooter. We’ll check everything for prints, but between the fire and the gloves, I’m not optimistic. According to the local weatherman, the last rain was three days prior, and it was a long, hard one. Any tracks are only three days old at best, and it looks like he disturbed the area no more than he had to.” Sydney set down her pad and looked around the table.
“My guess is the net-like material is a hood. Snipers use
them in place of makeup. Usually leaves only the eyes uncovered. In this case our guy couldn’t just walk out with makeup on could he? It would also help on keeping his hair and fibers to a minimum,” Jack commented. Then he added, “I agree with Sydney: our shooter is good. He knows how to set-up his position, and more importantly, he has the discipline to wait without fidgeting. Our victim had a regular schedule of golf every Saturday morning, so our boy had to watch him for at least two weeks and probably more. The fire was set up beforehand, and the wood was dry, so he had it covered during the rain they had; very patient. Also, the rifle he used was on the expensive side and similar to the ones used by the military. This was a professional hit. Someone wanted Mr. T. Addicot dead in a serious way. Any ideas, Larry?”
Larry flipped through several illegible pages of notes until he found what he wanted. “Maybe the wife. She’s wife number three, and there was a divorce in the works. Maybe she didn’t like her deal and thought she’d get a better one if he was dead? We’ll see the will tomorrow; the lawyer is flying in from Nassau. T. had two kids, both teenagers and away at school. My guess is the estate will go to them—not to the trophy wife. She was set to get a good deal in the divorce. The wife was supposed to be here by now, but I guess she’s in no hurry. She’s in New York, shopping, and said she’d be down as soon as she could. She has a Gulfstream, which I’m sure is nicer than ours, but go figure.
“The construction crew is a dead end, too: nobody saw anybody in those woods for at least two weeks back. The foreman was cooperative, but couldn’t tell me the names of all the crew. I got the feeling he hires some illegals on a daily basis. The help doesn’t know anything: just a normal day, according to the maid. He was going to golf, and then have some lunch with his buddies—who aren’t saying shit by the way. Possible numbers for some girlfriends to check out. His schedule has him in Houston all next week. The kid at the scene is a no-go for now; he won’t talk. He’s basically at a six-year old mentality. Gonna need a lot of work. Maybe in a few weeks? That’s it.” Larry looked at Dave.
Dave didn’t speak right away. He liked to form his words first. “The man definitely had his share of enemies. From the documents in his home’ office, I found an allotment of indictable material. His tax returns alone aren’t even close to what he filed. I found at least four cases of money laundering, and some evidence of payoffs. We managed to copy his hard-drive, so I should have some good leads for the home office to track. He had just finished a big case; made himself over five million. Maybe somebody involved in that or . . .” He let it trail off. Nobody had mentioned the letter yet. They all looked at Jack.
Jack looked around the table. “Guess I better make a phone call.”
• • •
“Deacon.” The Deputy Director was at home on his secure phone. “What do we know, Jack?”
“Our shooter is a professional, sir. A good one.” Jack gave him the news he didn’t wish to hear. “He hid his tracks very well; we have next to nothing here.”
“The letter?”
“We just need one thing to confirm it.”
“Yeah, another body.”
The state of Colorado holds 19,671 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 13,179 are repeat offenders.
—SIX—
“This could be my ticket to the Post.”
The thought was always in the back of Danny Drake’s head, but the minute he saw the scene it resurfaced immediately. As he pecked out the story on his laptop, his mind was already working on the blanks. As far as he knew, he had been the first reporter on the scene. He’d been dating the girl in the records department at this small suburban police station for six months. They had worked out a system where, if she overheard something juicy from the dispatcher, she would text him with the address. Since her desk was two feet from the dispatch room’s door—which never closed to let the air conditioner reach inside—she overheard the majority of the traffic. She knew it wasn’t something Chief Sanchez would like, so she kept the texts to a minimum. She knew of Danny’s ambition to work for the Washington Post someday, and was starting to think he might take her with him. Danny had yet to consider that.
What currently was occupying Danny’s mind was what he saw at the scene. He had arrived in time to see the chief remove a large envelope from a tree. The fact that the chief had taken a picture of it first had raised his curiosity even more. Sanchez did not look happy with the content, which he had carefully bagged and put in his car before Danny’s fellow journalists arrived. Thinking ahead, Danny had kept his mouth shut, and let all the others shout their questions at the very brief statement the chief had made. There had been no mention of the envelope, and Danny did not inquire. Everyone seemed to have accepted the car-jacking story without question. When his photographer had informed him he had shot everything and was going back to the office, Danny had asked to borrow a camera. “Just in case, I think I’ll hang out for a while,” he had said.
After a few hours, the telephoto lens provided Danny with his first live look at Special Agent Jack Randall. Danny read the Post every day, and Jack’s picture had been a regular one in the past year. Why was the FBI here? Why would they send one of their best agents, and their own crime scene investigators, to Florida on such short notice for a flubbed car-jacking? What was in the envelope? Sure, the victim was one of the rich and famous, but why did he warrant this kind of attention from the FBI? Too many holes in this story, Danny thought. But if he could fill them before somebody else did, he may be able to get out of this paper and into a real one. He checked his story for errors and with a keystroke sent it to his editor. Now, who should he call first?
• • •
Sam lay in his daughter’s bed looking at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars that he had spent an afternoon pasting up shined like newly discovered constellations. He had made an effort at a Big Dipper and Little Dipper, but he was off a little. They were more like ladles, his wife had joked. She was right. But his daughter would stare at them with intent interest when they put her to bed, and this had made the effort worth it. She was usually long asleep before the stars lost their glow.
He looked around his daughter’s room. The plants were still alive. Paul must be taking care of that, too. The room was the same: no one had moved anything. The toys were still on the floor with shoes and books among them. The little clothes still hung in the closet. The night-light glowed in the hallway to keep the monsters at bay should a nocturnal visit to the bathroom be necessary. SpongeBob grinned at him from a poster. Who would have thought that little kids would find a talking yellow sponge so entertaining? Sam had watched a few episodes with his daughter, both of them stretched out on the floor. He laughed when she did; she seemed to get it: he was obviously too old. The clock she had just learned to read claimed it was 3 a.m. when Sam pulled his daughter’s blanket over him. SpongeBob was still grinning. Sam thanked him and fell asleep, curled in a ball on the tiny bed.
• • •
Deputy Chief of Staff Charlie Parker was in the Roosevelt room of the White House with Senator John Harper and his many aides. Why the man had to have an entourage of ten people everywhere he went was beyond his scope of understanding. Most things about the senator were. A senior Republican from the state of Georgia, John Harper fit the bill of the stereotypical southern politician. He was big on God, justice, and of course, the topic of the meeting, guns.
The senator had a long and close relationship with the gun lobby. Anything that was vaguely related to the Second Amendment drew his attention. He had fought waiting periods, Teflon bullets, trigger locks, and background checks: all with success. The bills had either been defeated, or negotiated to the point of ineffectiveness. His current target was the President’s new crime bill. The first bill had been defeated before it had even reached a vote. It had been offered as a campaigning tool: the President could be seen as tough on crime, yet hamstrung by Congress. It had worked. The President had won the election, and the party had
picked up some seats in the House. Now that the President was in his second term, the bill had been rewritten bigger and broader. They were now going after the big prize: handguns. The senator was pulling out all the stops to defeat it.
It was Charlie’s job to find a way to make it happen.
“Senator, these figures are a year old, but they still can’t be denied. Last year we had over twenty-one thousand handgun-related deaths in this country. If we take away the suicides and the deaths ruled accidental, it still leaves us with over nineteen thousand handgun deaths. We have around sixty-five million handguns in this country, with a death rate of thirteen-point-seven per one-hundred thousand. This is three times the rate of Canada. On top of the homicides, this also shows that handguns are used nine out of ten times in robbery, assault and battery, and rape. The American people are tired of all these loophole-filled laws, Senator. The President wants this bill passed.”
The senator adopted his best poker face and then added his politicians grin. Charlie loathed the look but kept his face neutral.
“Charlie, I understand that the President would like me to get on board, but I just don’t think I can. His bill is placing all the blame on a few violent people. What about all the other law abiding gun owners? Besides, you aren’t going to stop people who are prone to violence just by taking away their guns.”
“No, we can’t, but we can make them less lethal. The study states that it’s not the fact that they are violent; but it’s the fact that they have easy access to handguns when they decide to be violent. The guns don’t kill people; people kill people line is crap, and you know it. The truth is, people without guns injure people, and people with guns kill them.”
