Fatal Invasion (The Fatal Series)

by Marie Force

  She gasped. “What?”

  “Did someone enter the house before you were let go?”

  She thought about that for a moment, and then her eyes widened. “I went to the bathroom that’s off the laundry room. I heard the doorbell, and the missus said she would get it.” Her hands began to shake. “When she came back, she... Oh my God. There was someone else in the house, and she wanted me to go!” She broke down again. “She didn’t fire me because I stole from her. That wasn’t why.”

  “No, ma’am,” Cameron said softly.

  “What time did the doorbell ring?” Jeannie asked.

  “It had to be around four thirty. The kids had gone upstairs to play.”

  “What time did Mr. Beauclair usually get home?”

  “Seven or after, but he was due home early that night because it was their anniversary. They’d planned to go out to dinner, which is why I was doubly surprised when she accused me of stealing and told me to get out. I was supposed to stay with the kids while they went to dinner.”

  “Do you know where they had reservations?”

  She mentioned a five-star restaurant in Georgetown that Cameron had heard of. He made a note of it, intending to call to see if they’d let the restaurant know they weren’t coming.

  “One other thing,” he said. “Can you tell me if they had a security system in the house?”

  “They did, and it was always on when they were asleep.”

  “And was it monitored off-site?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  We need to figure that out, Cameron thought, making a note to follow up. To Jeannie, he said, “I’m going to call this in.” He stood and went outside where he called the restaurant, asked to speak to the manager and confirmed that the Beauclairs had missed their reservation the night before and hadn’t called to cancel.

  “Were they regulars?” Cameron asked.

  “At least twice a month,” Martin, the manager, said.

  “It was unusual for them to not call to cancel?”

  “Very much so. They were always very courteous. Has something happened?”

  “There was a fire at their home last night.”

  “Oh no! Are they all right?”

  “I really can’t say anything more at this time.”

  “We’ll pray for them and their family.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “I wish it could’ve been more.”

  Cameron ended that call and placed one to Malone to update him on what the maid and restaurant manager had told him.

  “This gives us a timeline to work with on when the invasion began,” Malone said. “You don’t like the fired maid for this?”

  “Not one iota. She loved them and was heartbroken to be let go. When I told her Mrs. Beauclair probably saved her life by getting her out of there, she bawled her head off.”

  “Good work, Detective. Thanks for the update.”

  “It’s the lieutenant’s good work, and Detective Cruz’s. They tracked down the maid. We just did the follow-up. Any word on Cruz’s fiancée?”

  “Sam called to say she’s getting stitches but doing well.”

  “Glad to hear it. We’ll be back soon. We need to figure out who monitored their home security.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE CLOCK HAD inched closer to three by the time Sam returned to HQ. She’d driven Freddie and Elin home and had promised to check on them later. Another day, another crisis. Such was her life. This one had thoroughly rattled her, especially coming days before their wedding. She’d tried to stay strong for Freddie, but her mind had gone in some rather disturbing directions in the time it took to track down Elin.

  In the course of their work, they encountered all sorts of people who’d love to exact revenge on cops by going after their families. Thankfully, the Secret Service protected Nick and Scotty, but Freddie, Gonzo and the others had no such security trailing their loved ones. The thought of something happening to one of them because of the job was too unbearable to consider.

  She had two minutes alone in her office to collect herself before Captain Malone appeared in the doorway.

  “Knock, knock,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “How is she?”

  “Going to be fine, thank God.”

  “Hell of a thing to have happen the week of the wedding.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Sam said. “We were both so afraid someone had grabbed her.”

  “I was too.”

  “There’re no shortage of scumbags who’d like to see us suffer.”

  “No, there aren’t.” He sat in her visitor chair and brought her up to speed on what Green and McBride had gotten from the maid and the restaurant manager.

  “Cleo got her out of there, knowing there was going to be trouble. Whoever it was must’ve pulled a gun on her and had it on her while she was getting rid of the maid.”

  “No doubt, or she would’ve told the maid to send help. Green said the next step is figuring out what company monitored their home security.”

  “With the kind of money the Beauclairs obviously had there had to be top-notch security.”

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Avery Hill knocked on her open door. “Sorry for the interruption,” he said in a honeyed South Carolinian accent.

  “I wish I could say it’s nice to see you, Agent Hill.”

  Avery smiled. He did that a lot lately. Since he and Shelby had worked out their differences and committed to each other, it was obvious to everyone who knew him that he seemed lighter and less burdened. “Always a pleasure, Lieutenant. But about the Beauclairs... They’re ours.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re under federal protection. Or they were. Have we confirmed the identities of the people found in the house?”

  Surprised to hear about the Feds’ involvement, Sam glanced at Malone, who shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “We’re having trouble locating dental records.”

  Avery held up an envelope. “I have them.”

  Sam stared at him for a long moment. “Are you willing to share?”

  “If you’re willing to work together on this one. We need each other.”

  Sam didn’t want his help, but she did want those dental records. “Define ‘work together.’”

  Avery gave her a withering look. “We undertake a cooperative partnership aimed at solving a case that involves us both.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information—or hand over the dental records you need—until I’m certain we’ve entered into said cooperative partnership.”

  Sam sat in her chair and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “This, right here, is why I hate Feds.”

  “And I thought we were such good friends,” Avery said with the spark of humor that only added to his appeal.

  And, yes, she found him attractive despite everything he’d put her through by being attracted to her. In another lifetime, she might’ve been interested. In this lifetime, she was happily married and interested in only one man. Thankfully, Avery seemed to have gotten his crush—or whatever you wanted to call it—under control for his sake, her sake and Shelby’s. Calling him a good friend might be taking it too far. She’d learned to tolerate him, at best.

  “Enough,” Malone said. “We’ll play nice with each other and figure out who killed these people. Hand over the dental records, and we’ll tell you how they died. Then you can tell us why they were under federal protection and how you guys managed to let them get killed on your watch.”

  Avery winced. “Ouch.” He handed the envelope to Sam.

  She picked up her phone and dialed Lindsey’s extension. “I have dental records,” she said when the M
E answered. “Come and get ’em.”

  “On my way,” Lindsey said.

  “Conference room,” Sam said to Hill. “You can tell us all at the same time.”

  Avery turned and left the office.

  “Do I really gotta play nice with him, again?” Sam asked Malone.

  “You really gotta.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “I know. That’s my job. Someday, you’ll be the captain, and it’ll be your turn to be a gigantic bore.”

  “Really? You think I’ll be the captain?”

  “Only a matter of time, Lieutenant. Of course, I’ll have to retire and get out of your way.”

  “Don’t even think about it. I like everything exactly the way it is and have no desire to be the captain. At this time. Sir.”

  He snorted with laughter. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere for a while yet. For some sick reason, I’m still having fun here.”

  “Don’t you dare leave me to fend for myself. I need constant adult supervision, as you know better than anyone.”

  “That is a fact.”

  Lindsey appeared in the doorway. “What’s a fact?”

  “That the lieutenant needs constant adult supervision.”

  Lindsey’s lips quirked with the effort not to laugh.

  “It’s okay,” Sam said. “You can laugh. I said it about myself.”

  Lindsey laughed—hard.

  “You don’t need to have fits over it,” Sam muttered, amused by her friend’s reaction as she handed her the envelope with the dental records.

  “Where’d this come from?”

  “A little gift from our friends at the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Sam said.

  “We have friends at the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” Lindsey asked, brows raised in surprise.

  “Agent Hill brought them over along with the info that they were under federal protection.”

  “Uh-oh,” Lindsey said.

  “Exactly, and now I have to play nice with him and ‘work together.’ Ever since elementary school I’ve gotten marked down in the ‘plays well with others’ category.”

  “A problem that has dogged you well into adulthood,” Malone said.

  “What can I say?” Sam asked with a cheeky grin. “I’m apparently known for my consistency.” To Lindsey, she said, “Let me know when we have positive IDs.”

  “Will do.” Lindsey left to continue her examination of the bodies.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Sam said, following Malone from her office to the conference room where Gonzo, Green and McBride waited with Hill.

  “Close the door if you would, Lieutenant,” Hill said.

  Sam closed the door and leaned against it, sending him the signal that the floor was his. She took in the photos of the victims, alive and dead, that someone had posted to the murder board they would add to as the investigation unfolded.

  Hill went to the computer station, plugged in a flash drive, clicked around on the keys and the screen lit up with what looked like a PowerPoint presentation.

  Huh, Sam thought. Didn’t know we could do that.

  “What I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive information and needs to be treated with the highest degree of discretion. None of this is for public dissemination.” He clicked a handheld device that moved the presentation forward to a photo of a handsome man in his mid-to late-thirties.

  “Jameson Beauclair, née Jameson Armstrong, chief executive officer of APG Group, a now-defunct technology company headquartered in Silicon Valley. They made software that was widely used in the warehousing, shipping and distribution sectors.” Hill flipped through photos that showed the software program’s packaging, as well as Armstrong with a group of others celebrating the company’s initial public offering.

  “Their IPO four years ago was a big hit, with more than five billion in revenue in the first six months. Armstrong and APG were on top of the world.” The slides showed press coverage of the aftermath of the IPO when the company was widely referred to as Silicon Valley’s newest darling.

  Sam watched and listened and waited for the other shoe to fall.

  “A year after the IPO, Armstrong began to suspect that Duke Piedmont, the P in APG, had committed insider trading offenses ahead of the IPO, sharing information with potential investors that drove up the price of the shares. Armstrong found himself in a tight spot. Going public with the information might destroy the company and the reputations of the partners. Remaining silent could lead to charges for all of them down the road if the truth came out. Look at this series of photos taken of Armstrong over a six-month period.”

  As Hill clicked through the photos, Sam watched Armstrong age before her eyes. His dark hair turned gray. He went from all smiles to pinched, strained expressions, and his eyes...

  “Stop there for a second.” She moved closer to the screen for a better look at eyes that told the story of a tortured man. “Wow. The change in him is remarkable.”

  Hill clicked on the next slide. “This is Duke Piedmont,” he said of the strapping blond man with a winning smile who’d stood next to Armstrong in the IPO celebration photo. “The two men were roommates at Stanford and founded the business together almost fifteen years ago. By all accounts, Armstrong was the technical genius and Piedmont the business guru. Dave Gorton, the third partner, comes from a solid background in warehouse science, inventory and distribution. For a while, theirs was a typical American dream story. They found a need, figured out a way to address it and made billions. And then one of them decided that wasn’t enough.” He flipped through a series of slides showing Piedmont in a variety of social settings, always at the center of a group wearing a big, jovial smile.

  “We first began to look at Piedmont four years ago after a series of personal stock trades set off alarms within the SEC. Their investigators, working in concert with ours, convinced Armstrong to flip on his partner three years ago, which is when Piedmont took off.”

  “Any idea where Piedmont went?” Green asked.

  Hill shook his head. “He’s considered a fugitive. During the time Armstrong went from this,” Hill said, clicking on the happy, smiling photo of Armstrong, “to this.” He clicked on the gray-haired version of the same man. “He conducted a complete internal investigation that yielded far more than insider trading concerns. Piedmont had gotten involved with organized crime, was up to his eyeballs in a number of different rackets and was suspected of at least two murders, both people who’d gotten in the way of his schemes. When Piedmont learned that Armstrong had turned on him, he sent an email to Jameson from an untraceable account that put him on notice that he’d get even if it was the last thing he ever did. And that Jameson—and his family—should be very, very afraid. That’s when it was decided that the Armstrong family had to go into some sort of protective custody far away from Silicon Valley.”

  “I’ll never understand how someone makes billions of dollars and isn’t satisfied,” Jeannie said.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Green said. “What does it take to be happy?”

  “Armstrong handed Piedmont to us on the proverbial silver platter,” Hill continued. “He spent months sifting and digging through company records and servers, working twelve, fourteen, sometimes sixteen hours a day until he had what he felt was the complete picture of Piedmont’s activities in the years since APG was founded. It was one hell of a dossier.”

  “Could we see it?” Sam asked.

  “I’m telling you everything I can.”

  “I thought this was a collaborative partnership?” Sam asked. “I see how this is gonna go.”

  “I got you the dental records you needed, didn’t I?”

  “Is this all you’re going give us? The rest is on us?”

  “I’m giving you the deep background on why Armstrong was under protection
. That’s info you didn’t have an hour ago.”

  “When you say he was under protection,” Jeannie said, “does that mean witness protection?”

  “Not technically,” Hill said. “That would’ve been our preference, but Armstrong refused to give up everything he’d worked so hard for because his partner had turned into a lying, cheating scumbag. In cooperation with the SEC and the FBI, Armstrong and Gorton dissolved the corporation and sold off the stock at bargain basement prices. Their investors took a loss, but that’s the risk you take when you play the game with the market. The only one we were after on criminal charges was Piedmont.

  “Armstrong’s personal assets weren’t impacted by the investigation, so he was able to afford to live under an assumed name in a five-million-dollar house in Chevy Chase, send his kids to an elite private school and keep his life and the lives of his wife and children very similar to what they were in California.”

  “Did people from his life there know where they were?” Green asked.

  Sam noticed that Gonzo was studying the screen but didn’t seem engaged in the conversation.

  “We believe their family members did,” Hill said, “but no one else. They quietly left town after APG shut down operations.”

  “That would explain why the Beauclairs have no social media presence,” Jeannie said.

  “Right,” Hill replied. “They were instructed on the importance of keeping a low profile until we’re able to apprehend Piedmont.”

  “Where does that part of the investigation stand?” Malone asked.

  “I wish I could say we’re close, but we’re not. He literally disappeared into thin air, which leads us to suspect he either had help or he’d been planning to make a run for some time. He has the resources to stay deep underground for the rest of his life.”

  “What kind of security did the Beauclairs have after they were under your protection?” Green asked.

  “They had a fairly sophisticated home security system that included panic buttons they both wore around their necks. We believe that the perpetrator recognized the medallions as panic buttons and removed them from their persons. I checked with the monitoring company and learned that the system had been deactivated yesterday morning, per usual, and was never reactivated last night. The couple had declined active surveillance within their home, and because the system wasn’t activated during the day yesterday, there’s no footage from the time period in question.”