Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

"Great." I don't give a fuck about his health, you moron. "Who shot him?"

  "Caucasian male, thirties, gave the name Paul Renner. Was asking about the Martha's Vineyard job."

  "Did he learn anything?"

  The ensuing pause was far too long for comfort. "He's not sure. He knows the guy got a look at his cell phone. Called 911 after he shot him."

  "Anything in the cell?"

  "We're not sure. The caller ID was wiped, but Geoff isn't sure if he'd done it himself or if the guy did it."

  "Can you find the assailant?" Frank asked.

  "Not sure. We got a picture from the security feed out front of MacUther's place."

  "Send it to me, and stand by."

  "You got it."

  "Watch his hospital room. Let me know if anyone comes to see him."

  He hung up the phone, picked it back up, and called yet another number, this one local.

  A feminine voice answered, smothered in Southern twang. "Department of Homeland Security, Bioterrorism. How may I direct your call?"

  He didn't bother to give his name. "Jeannie, put me through to my office, now."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Chapter 22

  February 2nd, 4:23 PM PST; Highway 280, northbound; San Bruno, California.

  Three thousand miles away, Gene, Doug, and Carl screamed north up Interstate 280, lights flashing and siren blaring as they blew past the traffic.

  The GPS was leading them to the Daly City home of Geoffrey MacUther, just south of San Francisco. The money trail was circumstantial, but the forensic accounting team had led them to a California-based startup called SoFiaK. They'd all slept on the plane, and they looked it. The car reeked of body odor.

  Sam's voice erupted from both the speakerphone and his COM ear-bead with an odd reverberation effect. "I have a Geoffrey MacUther, admitted a half hour ago under John Doe to the emergency room at Kaiser Permanente, 395 Hickey Boulevard, Daly City, with multiple gunshot wounds. They ran his prints on DigiLink, and the database flagged it for me." Doug slammed on the brakes. Onlookers gaped as the unmarked SUV skidded to a stop in the middle of the fast lane.

  "How do we get there, Sam?" Carl looked down at the GPS and started punching in Hospital. He didn't have a clue how to spell "Kaiser Permanente."

  "Hold on, I'm routing it to your GPS now."

  Directions for MacUther's house disappeared. Directions for the hospital appeared. Doug hit the gas.

  Ten minutes later Gene stalked through the Emergency Department entrance and up to the triage desk, flanked by Doug and Carl. It looked like the Boston hospital where Marty was recovering, only five times smaller and ten times cleaner.

  Gene flashed his badge at the receptionist. Doug and Carl wore theirs. Other than the official identification, they looked and smelled like homeless men in wrinkled suits. "Gene Palomini, FBI. What room is the gunshot John Doe in?" Doug and Carl barged past her and started looking in windows.

  "You gentlemen got here fast." The woman looked at the badge with mild suspicion and pecked at her keyboard. "One moment." She typed a little more. "4A, down on the right."

  Carl hollered, "Got it!"

  As they walked down the hall the nurse called to them, "He's scheduled for surgery in ten minutes!"

  They ignored her and walked in together.

  Uniformed policemen stood on either side of the bed. Their eyes widened as they saw the FBI badges. "Both of you, out." Gene was in no mood to argue.

  "Sorry, Agent…." The younger-looking cop leaned forward to read the name off his badge. "Palomini, but we've got orders to watch this man. Standard procedure for a gunshot victim."

  Carl looked at the man's badge. "Bullshit, Officer Mulroney. If this were a black man from the projects, he'd be in here by himself while you were out eating doughnuts and flirting with the receptionist. What you meant to say was that this is standard procedure for a rich white gunshot victim."

  Officer Mulroney stuttered, "Well, I, uh—"

  Gene repeated himself. "Out. Give us five minutes."

  The men stood at attention. "We're sorry, but we have our orders."

  Gene looked at Doug and Carl. "Arrest these men and place them in federal custody."

  The officers looked at one another and reluctantly shuffled out of the room.

  Doug chuckled as he closed the door, but it held no joy. "That was diplomatic."

  "Don't care," Gene said.

  He leaned over the patient. MacUther's face was gray, his eyes sunken. Heavy bandages covered his chest. He looks like I feel, Gene thought without humor.

  Gene pulled a printed photograph of Paul Renner from his pocket and unfolded it. He held it up in front of MacUther's face and patted his cheek to wake him. "Hey. Geoffrey MacUther." The man's eyes flickered open. He pushed the picture forward. "Is this the man who shot you?"

  "Yes," MacUther said. "Said he'd…hurt Jordan. Couldn't…."

  Gene interrupted. "Where did he go, Mr. MacUther?"

  "Son of a bitch. Looking for someone…who hired me. Didn't get it, but I think he…." A spasm wracked his body, then settled. "He got a lead. I tell you…you get the bastard? Threatened my daughter…granddaughter…."

  "We'll get him, Mr. MacUther. Just tell us what we need to know."

  "Don't have much. Calls himself Shelley. All I have is a…phone number. The same one…." He leaned forward in a coughing fit, splattering the sheets with a faint spray of blood. Doug looked at his vitals and gave Gene a thumbs-up.

  "The same one what?" Gene prompted.

  "The same one…calls a front. Gabrielle's…. A jewelry shop…downtown San Francisco…to contract jobs."

  Meanwhile, outside the room, "Officer Mulroney" made a telephone call.

  "We've got a problem. Some FBI guys are talking to him now. An Agent Palomini and two other guys." He braced for the anticipated explosion.

  Shelley's voice was shockingly calm. "Did they make you?"

  "No," he replied. "If they check our badge numbers they'll hold up. They threatened to take us into custody, though."

  "Do you have their names?" Shelley asked.

  "Just the one."

  "What was it again?"

  "Palomini. Papa Alpha Lima Oscar Mike India November India."

  "I'll take care of it. Inform me immediately if anyone else visits MacUther." Shelley hung up.

  * * *

  February 2nd, 5:08 PM PST; Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry; San Francisco, California.

  Less than an hour later, the floor lights turned off at Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry. Paul Renner came out the front door while jotting a phone number into a notepad that he had purchased from the Walgreen's down the block. He verified that the sign on the door was flipped to Closed, fiddled with the keys until he found the right one, and locked the door.

  That done, he pointed the automatic unlock at the row of cars across the street and pushed the button. A 2006 BMW sedan blipped and unlocked its doors. Perfect, Paul thought. It always pays to kill people with good taste.

  He got in the car and admired the leather and wood interior. Exquisite taste. He put the key into the ignition and turned it. The car started with a throaty, masculine rumble. He eased it out of the tight parking spot and turned left toward Embarcadero Drive. He was only a few short minutes from San Francisco International Airport. He looked at his watch. Or eight years in rush hour traffic.

  He stopped at a pier to get a snack and relax during rush hour. It was nice to be able to eat local food, and nothing beat a Pacific crab cake fresh off the pier. Paul took out his phone to book a flight to Dulles International Airport. Nah, too predictable. He booked a flight to Newark. He'd rent a car and drive to D.C.

  Once there, he'd arrange an unfriendly in-home meeting with a Doctor Emile Frank of the Department of Homeland Security, where they'd have a little chat. Paul smiled. For the first time in days, things were looking up.

  Chapter 23

  February 2nd, 6:20 PM PST; Highway 280, northbound; San Francisco, California.r />
  By twenty after six, Gene wanted to kill whoever was responsible for rush-hour traffic in the Bay Area. It had taken them almost an hour to travel at most a half mile up Highway 280. At this rate it would take another six hours to get to Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry. Their flight left in four hours, and they weren't going to make it.

  "Hey, Sam?" Gene asked the air.

  "I'm not done yet, Gene. This is going to take a while." An hour earlier Sam had started crunching the data on Shelley, trying to crack his identity.

  "Not that, Sam. I know you'll send it when you're done."

  "Sure will. What can I do for you, sweetie?" Her voice was saccharine, with an undertone of annoyance. She loved hacking and was obsessive once on a project. Like a pit bull on a leg, she had a hard time letting it go.

  "Can you book us a later flight? There's no way we're going to make it to Gabrielle's and back to the airport."

  "Sure," she said as if booking plane tickets was the best job in the entire world. "One new set of tickets, coming right up!"

  Carl stared out the window at the never-ending trail of cars. "We could walk faster than this, couldn't we?"

  They'd made it another two car lengths when she came back with a reply. Carl was right. They could walk faster than this.

  "Um, Gene, Homeland Security's grounded all flights out of the Greater Bay Area." Gene's head felt like it was going to explode. As if catching Paul Renner wasn't enough to worry about.

  Carl piped up from the back seat, "Must be something big going on."

  Doug was a little more useful. "Any idea what, Sam?" He turned on the radio and got an Emergency Broadcast System test. He changed the channel and got the same tone. Third channel, same thing. Gene slapped his hand away from the radio.

  "Just leave it, Doug. They'll explain in a minute."

  Sam replied, "Nothing's trickled through to the FBI yet."

  After ten or so seconds the tone stopped.

  "This is the Federal Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. This is not a test. The Homeland Threat Level is now Very High. A Homeland Security Emergency has been declared for the cities of San Francisco, Daly City, Pacifica, Millbrae, Colma, Burlingame, and San Mateo. If you are in your home or your place of work, do not leave. If you are within five miles of work or home, go there. If traveling by auto and not within five miles of work or home, pull to the side of the road and await further instructions. All military, hospital, and emergency personnel are to report to their stations immediately.

  "This is the Federal Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. This is not a test." The message repeated. Numb, they listened to it a second time.

  Carl leaned back in his seat. "Holy shit. They can't just lock down the entire peninsula."

  Doug's face had turned a pale white. "Yeah, well, they just did."

  Gene shook his head. "Well, forget that. We're the FBI, and we've got a killer to catch."

  "Badges got to be good for something," Carl said.

  Gene looked in the rear-view mirror. Ashen faces listened to radios in other cars. People yelled out their windows to other drivers, telling them to turn on their radios.

  "Hey, Gene?" Sam's voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

  "Yeah, Sam, go ahead."

  "The FBI just got a national bulletin. You're not going to believe this shit. It says a radical group called the Aryan Ascendancy—never heard of them, but I'll bet they're a bunch of assholes—just smuggled a nuclear warhead into the country through San Francisco. They've put up a picture with the name Harold Trubb, and you're not going to believe who the prime suspect is."

  Gene waited a moment and got no response.

  "Goddamn it, Sam," Doug said. "Who the hell is it?"

  "Renner."

  Gene had to have misheard that. "Did you just say Paul Renner is threatening a nuclear attack on the Bay Area?"

  "It's his picture, Gene, sure as I'm a fat broad. I'll download it to your PDA. Funny thing, though. Nothing we know about Renner ties him to neo-Nazis."

  Carl muttered in the back seat, "Wouldn't surprise me." Gene's PDA blipped and a picture of Paul Renner appeared. It was fuzzy, as if taken from a security camera, but unmistakable.

  Traffic had come to a standstill. Some cars pulled off the road. Most just sat there. Some people got out of their cars, earning honks, curses, and middle fingers from other drivers. The volume rose as shouts added to the horns.

  Sam's whisper carried over the COM as clear as day. "What the fuck?"

  "Yeah, go ahead, Sam, we heard that."

  "Gene, something's desperately wrong here. I've got another picture here, an accomplice. Name's listed as Jim Palenti. I'm sending it to your PDA now." It blipped, and all three of them looked at it.

  "Jesus, Gene, is that you?" Carl sounded as incredulous as Gene felt. The picture was from an FTA, field training exercise, almost eight years ago. Gene held a machine gun and wore forest-camo fatigues. With his shaved head, he really did look like a neo-Nazi.

  Gene stared at the picture, speechless. Doug replied instead, "Is this for real?"

  Sam's tone was serious. "I wouldn't joke about something like this, guys. Not after Jerri and Marty." She cleared her throat. "Gene, what the hell is going on?"

  Carl answered for him. "Renner was right. This goes pretty far up the chain of power. Shelley's worried we're going to find out who he is, and he's pulled out the big guns to stop us."

  Doug chuckled darkly. "If I were him, I'd be a bit more worried about Renner."

  Gene's grin held no humor at all. "Get out of the car. We've got to get out of the crowds before Homeland Security releases this picture to the public. Sam, keep working on Shelley, and get Adams to clear me. We'll make our way to Gabrielle's as best we can."

  "Will do!" The order was like giving a kid candy. "Be careful, guys."

  Carl replied for them, "We will."

  They stepped out of the car into utter pandemonium.

  Chapter 24

  February 2nd, 9:28 PM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building, Sub-basement Four; Washington, D.C.

  With two TVs and three computer monitors devoted to the situation in San Francisco and a message left on Adams' cell, Sam got back to work on Shelley's identity. All she had to go on was a cellular phone number, a fake name, and the fact that he worked for the federal government in Washington, D.C.

  The average person would be terrified if he knew just what the government could find out about him, and writing code on the fly to mine data was Sam's bread and butter. She'd fueled up on jelly doughnuts and Mountain Dew from the mini-mart down the street, and was ready to work. She cracked her knuckles and set in for a marathon of data-crunching. Here comes Big Brother, Shelley. Come out, come out, wherever you are! For several hours Sam forgot about her teammates, San Francisco, nuclear warheads, and even food.

  Using the Homeland Security database of cellular phone patterns, she traced the daily route of Shelley over the past eighteen months. Almost every weekday he started in Springfield, Virginia, moved to Washington, D.C. along the 395 artery, and went back home. That narrowed the suspect list down to eighty-or-so thousand people. His weekend patterns were all over the place, but nothing stuck out. The phone never left the greater Washington area.

  She restricted the list to government employees and cut the original number by almost a third. She eliminated over twenty thousand more when she compared vacation records and sick time with the cellular tracking data, and even more than that when she added a cross-reference of the time clock databases of all government agencies. There were a lot of people who didn't actually punch a clock, so when she finished that, she still had more than eight thousand possible names.

  She cut out the people on scheduled trips and conferences outside of Washington when the phone was on and in the D.C. area. That shortened the list by a few hundred people. Ninety percent in a few hours wasn't bad, but it wasn't good enough. She stared at the screen, unmoving. Her mind raced.

 
Sam chuckled at herself and eliminated the women. MacUther had told them Shelley was male and didn't use a voice scrambler. That could have saved a lot of time. Thirty-eight hundred people left. She sighed and looked at the clock. She'd been at it for five hours. What else, what else? She tapped her finger against her bottom lip. MacUther didn't mention anything about an accent, so she took a guess. She eliminated non-native citizens and late immigrants. Twenty-nine hundred people.

  Who are you, Shelley? Come to Mama so she can spank your naughty little butt. She had a thought and smiled. You can afford to hire mercenaries to kill people for you. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, cutting everyone with a net worth of less than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, barring primary residences. That was probably too low, but she needed to be somewhat conservative. He could be using government funds. Six hundred and twenty three people.

  What else do I know that can narrow this down? In the next hour she wrote a program to track as close as possible the exact position of the cellular phone on an hour-by-hour basis. The granularity of the data was terrible. She only had what cell tower covered the phone at any given time, which gave her almost nothing at all. The one thing it did give her was the exact time the phone crossed from one cell area to the next.

  She tapped her bottom lip. Doesn't I-395 have HOT lanes? High-Occupancy Toll lanes were special highway lanes for car-poolers, but also for people willing to spend extra money to drive faster from point A to point B. A wealthy government-type would almost definitely use them.

  She looked up the locations of the HOT toll booths and overlapped them with cellular coverage maps. One HOT lane on 395 was within a quarter mile of a transition from one cell to the next. She cross-referenced the cellular travel patterns of the phone with government-owned EZ-Pass (HOT) toll card records, fed the new information into her program, and looked at the screen. A picture of a man in his late fifties or early sixties stared back at her.