by John Locke
“We don’t think so.”
“Either they did or they didn’t.”
“We’re literally moments away from having a positive ID.”
“Good. What makes this couple so special?”
“They were executed before the attack.”
“By ‘executed,’ you mean what, exactly?”
“They each took a bullet to the head. Between the eyes.”
I frown.
“There’s more,” he says. “A young woman was found in the same house, near the back door. She was badly hurt in the explosion, but she’s alive.”
“Got a name on that one?”
“Yeah. Jane Doe.” He laughs. “But we think she’s the shooter.”
“Why?”
“Police recovered two shells in her pocket, and three pinhole cameras.”
“The footage she took is probably on her cell phone.”
“We think so too. But it’s encrypted.”
“Your guys can crack that.”
“Sure. Eventually. But there’s a government footprint on the encryption.” He notes my blank look and adds, “A marker. Her phone is protected by some sort of government encryption.”
I’m rapidly developing a sick feeling in my stomach. “What’s her condition?”
“She’ll live.”
There aren’t many female assassins in the country, and I make it my business to know them all. But this one sounds like my daughter, Kimberly, who goes by the name Maybe Taylor.
“Got a picture of the shooter?” I say.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
He turns his cell phone toward me, shows me a picture of Kimberly.
My heart skips a beat, but I can’t let my expression show recognition. In the photo, she looks dead. Thank God Agent Dung already said she’s going to live. I’ll have to trust him on that. In the meantime, I need to get the focus off Kimberly. They’re already building a murder case against her, and have obviously sent this photo to police and FBI all over the country. It might very well be on the evening news tonight. If it is, she’ll be identified.
I ask, “Was Milo a criminal attorney?”
“Predominantly, yes.”
“Sounds like a gangland murder.”
“We agree. But we can’t figure out how it ties into Decker blowing up the neighborhood.”
“When we get to the hospital, any chance I can have a few minutes alone with her?”
“Not officially.”
“But…?”
“We realize you have more latitude than we do in these situations. The government actually cares if we break laws.”
“Right. And when you guys retire, no one shows up to kill you.”
“There’s that.”
“I assume they’re considering Jane Doe a murder suspect, and not one of the bombers?”
“That’s right, and that’s the problem. The bombers haven’t officially been classified as terrorists. But if that changes, I’m told you have the power to classify her as a possible terrorist, which would allow you to interrogate her. Is that a fair assessment of how your department operates?”
“Off the record?”
“Of course.”
“It is. But not in high-visibility cases like this one.”
“I really want to find out what she knows,” Dung says. “After the police do their thing I’m willing to create a diversion to buy you some time with her.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Two stipulations.”
“Name them.”
“She’ll have to survive your interview.”
“You have my word. What’s the second thing?”
“You’ll have to record the interview and let us make a copy.”
“No problem.”
When we arrive at the hospital I tell Agent Dung I need to make a couple of quick calls to let Homeland Security know about the upcoming interview. He tells me where to meet him when I’m finished.
I use the time to make five calls.
Callie doesn’t answer.
Nat Flemming does.
“Nat, it’s Donovan Creed.”
“Holy shit!”
“Ready for the big leagues?”
“I’ve been waiting two years for this call. Where and when?”
“For now I just need a warning shot. When can you be in place?”
“Zone 1?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty minutes, give or take.”
“Good man.”
Third call is to Layla Hart. When she answers, I say, “It’s Donovan Creed. You’re being activated.”
“Thank you, sir! When do I start?”
“Immediately.”
“Not to sound mercenary, but how will this affect my pay?”
“That’s your second question?”
“I’m sort of dating a guy. It’s gotten serious.”
“I’d have to check what starting salary is these days. But activation bonus is a million.”
“Wow! Can I keep the guy?”
“Have we vetted him?”
“Not officially.”
“If he passes you can date him between assignments. But you can’t tell him anything about your work.”
“Of course. Where do you need me?”
“Florida.”
“When?”
“Instantly. Pack your things. C.H. will call you with details.”
“What does C.H. stand for?”
“I honestly don’t know. But you’ll know him by his voice.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s an elf.”
She pauses. “This is a test, right? Shit! I know this. It’s a clandestine group or a code name for someone.”
“Relax. It’s neither. C.H. is an actual woodland elf.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Don’t tell C.H.”
Fourth call is to C.H. the elf. I tell him what I need.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
I hang up, take a deep breath, and make the fifth call.
14.
“HELLO?”
“Janet, it’s me.”
“What do you want?”
“I need a favor.”
“Fuck you!”
“This is important.”
“Your favors ended with the divorce papers.”
“It’s about Kimberly.”
“What about her?”
“I need you to take her shopping today.”
“What are you talking about? Kimberly’s in Las Vegas.”
“She’s on her way to your place. She’ll be there in two hours. She’ll stay with you a few days. It’ll be like old times. Except not exactly. When she gets her luggage situated, you’ll take her shopping. You’ll buy something nice for yourself on her credit card. My treat. A dress, a car—whatever you want. You’ll have lunch at a public place, you’ll laugh, you’ll hug each other like the old days. But make sure the neighbors see you together. And don’t be afraid to let her talk to the neighbors.”
“Do you have any idea how insane you sound?”
“No.”
“I don’t know what type of relationship you have with our daughter, but Kimberly always calls before showing up. We make plans.”
“When’s the last time you heard from her?”
“Yesterday.”
“Well, she’s been in an accident.”
“What?”
“You know the bombs that went off in Jackson and Louisville?”
“You did that?”
“No, of course not. It was a terrorist attack. Anyway, Kimberly was…visiting one of the homes.”
She says nothing, so I add, “At the time of the bombing.”
She says, “If she was in an accident, why would she want to go shopping?”
I sigh.
Civilians.
Jesus.
“Look, I know this won’t make any sense to you,” I say. “But in a few hours Kimberly’s p
hoto will be all over the news.”
“Why?”
“Two of the bombing victims were shot before the attack.”
“What attack?”
“The fucking bombing attack. Are you paying attention?”
“What does the bombing attack have to do with Kimberly?”
“The FBI thinks she shot and killed two people. The whole thing’s a misunderstanding, and I can fix it. But I can’t fix it in time to keep her photo from going out. What I’m saying, I need you to do something for me. For Kimberly, I mean.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I can’t wait to hear the favor.”
“I already told you. I want you to take her shopping today.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. “We got disconnected.”
“Yeah, we did. Because I hung up on you.”
“You knew I’d call you back.”
“If you had the time.”
I frown. “I’m trying to solve this issue with Kimberly.”
“Then tell the fucking truth for once in your life! Our daughter’s a school teacher in Las Vegas. It makes no sense she’d be in Louisville, or that the FBI considers her a murder suspect. But if they did, I doubt they’d let her flee the state to go shopping with me. So what the fuck is going on? Where’s Kimberly?”
“You mean right now?”
“No. I mean six years ago when I caught you in the lady’s room at Starbucks with that Irish whore!”
“She wasn’t a whore. She was a CIA agent.”
“You were kissing her on the floor!”
“Jesus, Janet. We’ve been through this a hundred times. The agent was late to our meeting, I found her unconscious in the women’s room. I gave her mouth-to-mouth. And—why am I even telling you this?—You weren’t even there! Your friend, Christine’s the one who walked in on us.”
“You slept with her.”
“You know that’s not true. You made me take a polygraph, remember?”
“What sort of spy would you be if you couldn’t fake a polygraph?”
I sigh. “Kimberly’s in the hospital.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why are you so difficult to talk to?”
“Because I’m the ex-wife of a pathological liar. Which hospital is she in? I’ll call to verify.”
“Mercy Hospital, in Louisville. But don’t call. And don’t tell anyone.”
She laughs. “You are so full of shit. Let’s see if I’ve got this right. My daughter’s been in a bombing accident in Louisville, Kentucky. She’s a patient at Mercy Hospital, but I’m not allowed to call her, or tell anyone. She’s a murder suspect, but she’s on her way to visit me for a shopping spree.”
“I have to tell you something. Don’t hang up and don’t go nuts on me. This is serious. The woman who’s on her way to stay with you is Kimberly’s body double. She knows everything there is to know about Kimberly. And looks exactly like her. You wouldn’t be able to tell them apart except for the voice. The real Kimberly—our daughter—is in the hospital. She’ll be fine, but at the moment she’s unconscious. They’re calling her Jane Doe, and asking the public to identify her. Be we can’t let that happen. So when her photo hits the newswires, I don’t want your friends and relatives thinking she’s Kimberly.”
“If you’re telling the truth, it is Kimberly.”
“Yes. But I can’t let them identify her.”
“They could take her fingerprints.”
“She doesn’t have fingerprints.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t have time to get into all that. I’m trying to move her to a safe location.”
“She’s in the hospital? Swear it. On Kimberly’s life.”
“I swear.”
“You son of a bitch! I know you had something to do with this. What’s her condition?”
“She’s been downgraded to serious.”
“Serious? What the fuck was it before?”
“Critical. But she’s doing fine.”
“I’m going there. She needs me.”
“You can’t.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what I can and can’t do! Especially when your solution is for me to go shopping. Shopping? Why the fuck would I go shopping when my daughter’s in the intensive care unit?”
“She’s been moved out of intensive care—”
I notice an orderly heading toward me, pushing a cart. I give him my full focus in case he’s been sent here to assassinate me. As I work out the best way to neutralize him, he passes without incident. I turn my focus back to Janet and say, “Kimberly’s in serious danger with the police and FBI, and you’re going to have to trust me to solve this. So listen without interrupting. If you don’t do exactly what I say, I will fucking kill you. You know I’m serious. I’m at Mercy Hospital right now. I’ve seen Kimberly, and she’s going to be fine. The place is crawling with police, detectives, and FBI. I need to get her out of here, and I will, but I can’t let them find out who she is. So the body double is going to pose as our daughter, and you’re going to play along. And I’ll keep you posted on Kimberly’s recovery. When everything’s safe, you can come to my facility in Virginia and spend as much time with her as you want.”
“You wouldn’t kill your daughter’s mother.”
“Hold on, while I conference someone.”
I work the buttons on my phone till Nat Flemming says, “I’m here.”
“Janet? This is Nat. He works for me.”
“Fuck you, Nat,” she says.
I ask, “Nat, where’s Janet?”
“In the kitchen.”
“What the fuck?” Janet says.
“Nat, do it!”
He fires a shot through the kitchen window.
Janet screams.
I say, “That was a warning shot to show I’m serious. Nat’s going to keep an eye on you till this is over. He’s going to pose as Kimberly’s boyfriend. Now open the door and let him in, or he’ll kill you before you can call 911.”
“You’re a despicable son of a bitch. A disgusting, whore-mongering, low-life, murderous bastard.”
“I agree. And those are the very flaws that kept me from getting a better wife.”
“Fuck you!”
15.
I’M NOT ALONE. There are seven of us standing around Kimberly’s hospital bed, waiting for her to regain consciousness. We’re told that could happen at any minute, and I’m concerned she’ll see me and say something like, “Dad!” that could make it harder for me to get her out of here and have her hospital records erased. If I could be alone with her when she wakes up I could control the situation. But that’s not going to happen. I won’t be able to meet her privately till the detectives have a chance to try to trick her into saying something they can use against her in court.
As Kimberly’s hand twitches, my phone vibrates. On the chance it’s Callie, I check it.
“Be right back!” I say to the surprised group.
I leave the room, then click the phone to accept the call from Sal Bonadello, Midwest crime boss.
“What’s up, Sal?”
“I heard you’re—whatcha call—cohabitating with that gorgeous blonde killer that works for you.”
“I’m kind of busy right now.”
“You’re a helluva cocksman, Creed. A helluva cocksman! Eight weeks ago you fly here to meet me, end up humpin’ a hot MILF in the men’s room of a bar. Now Callie Carpenter’s dining on Creed steak. How about you—whatcha call—allocate some of that nooky to me?”
“Callie’s spoken for.”
“I’m talking about the MILF. When a score goes down in my city, I’m supposed to get a taste. And from what I hear, you made a helluva score in the men’s room.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I hear things.”
“Like I said, I’m busy right now. If there’s nothing else—”
“You know those guys I told you about eight weeks ago?
”
“What about them?”
“They’re still alive.”
I frown. “Have you been watching the news lately?”
He chuckles. “That Decker’s got you runnin’ in circles like he’s nailed your left foot to the floor.”
“I’ll thin out your herd when this is over. Anything else?”
“I got a strange phone call just now.”
“Can I call you back tonight?”
“Sure, but you’ll want to hear this right now.”
I sigh. “Please be quick.”
“A Louisville attorney asked me to recommend a hit man.”
“I hope you gave him someone else.”
“Nope. I gave him your name and said you’d call him within 24 hours.”
“Why?”
“He wants you to kill one of your people. Maybe Taylor.”
I nearly drop my phone.
Sal laughs.
I say, “What’s this guy’s name?”
“Milo Fister.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “I heard he died.”
“You heard wrong. Milo and this other lady hired your daughter to kill their spouses. Now they want to hire someone to kill her. Don’t you love it?”
“What’s her name?”
“Who, Milo’s partner?”
“Yeah.”
“Faith Stallone.”
“What?”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“The guy Kimberly killed. Was it Jake Stallone?”
“That sounds right. Listen, I want fifty grand for giving you this information.”
“Done.”
“And pictures of what you do to them. You know how I love pictures.”
“We’ll see.”
16.
Callie Carpenter.
IT ISN’T HARD for Callie to find Jack Tallow’s hotel room. A thousand bucks convinces the concierge she’s Jack’s sister.
And why shouldn’t it?
She knows his real name, knows he’s staying at the Rose Dumont under an assumed name, knows the room’s being paid by Donovan Creed, knows he’s convalescing under a doctor’s care, and that the doctor’s checking on him every day.
Still, you don’t get to be a concierge at the Rose Dumont Hotel by giving out guest information, so the concierge insists on calling Jack personally.
“If he’s alone, he’ll hiss,” Callie says. “He’s had an operation, and lost his vocal cords, so tell him to tap the phone once for yes, and twice for no.”
