“Thank you.”
She ignored the irony in his tone. “As long as you give me the same privilege and let me go my own way.” She stared him in the eye. “So prove you didn't lie to me. Let me go. Put up or shut up.”
“It's not that easy. All the roadblocks I mentioned before are still in place.” He held up his hand as she started to interrupt. “I didn't say I wasn't willing to find a way around them. I'm in a delicate situation. I made a deal with Logan and I don't want to break it.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I'm afraid of you. Because there's every chance you could get me killed.”
“I don't want to get anyone killed. I just want to find the men who buried those men, women, and children at Arapahoe Junction.”
“I know. And since you won't give up until you find them, you won't be safe until you do.” He turned away. “And I promised you that I'd keep you safe. So I have no choice. I have to find and get rid of them.”
“You expect me to believe you'll help me find them?”
“And dispose of them. After that I figure my debt is paid and you're on your own. Finish your sandwich and milk. We have work to do.”
“What?”
“Recuperation time is over. I take it you didn't ID any of the men at the dam in the databases?”
She shook her head.
“Police artist?”
“That was going to be the next step.”
“The next step is here. You give me features and I'll put them on paper. We'll get faces and then we'll get names.”
She stared at him for a moment. “You mean it.”
He sat down and flipped open the sketch pad. “You're damn right I do.”
“Longer sideburns?” Morgan asked.
“No, but the forehead was broader, the hair receding.”
Morgan's pencil moved quickly over the pad. “Any moles or scars?”
“I don't remember.”
“That's not acceptable.”
“I only saw him for a few seconds. I was paying attention to the men outside the helicopter.”
“You remembered the other two faces.”
“He was inside the helicopter. There was shadow. . . .”
Ken's helicopter exploding in a ball of flame.
“You don't want to remember.”
“Screw you.”
He ignored her, his gaze on the pad. “You said he was the one who fired the shot. Take it from the point where he lifted his hand and pointed the gun.”
“I don't remember.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“I don't know.”
“What size? A magnum? A thirty-eight?”
“A rifle . . .”
“Okay, he's lifting the rifle. Follow the line from barrel to stock. Do you see it?”
Metal gleaming blue in the lights of Ken's helicopter.
“Do you see it?”
“I see it.”
“Then you have to be able to see his face. Lips?”
“Thin.”
“Cheekbones?”
“High.”
“How high?”
“His face is kind of . . . diamond shape.”
“Good.” His pencil was flying over the pad. “Eyebrows?”
Eyes squinting as he aimed the rifle.
“Bushy.”
“Eye color?”
“I can't see them. Dark, I think.”
“Nose?”
“Straight. Short. Slightly flared nostrils.”
“Okay. We've got a start. Give me a minute and I'll let you see it and we'll make the changes.” He bent over the pad.
That had been the procedure all afternoon. Morgan had probed and questioned and made her remember details she had forgotten. Working on the sketches of the first two men had not been easy, but it was on the last one that she had drawn a blank.
A blank Morgan had not let her maintain.
He was tireless and his concentration seemed, if anything, more intense while he was working on this last sketch.
“What about his neck? No double chin?”
“No. The line was firm, sharp, and he— What's wrong?”
He'd frozen, his pencil still, as he stared at the sketch.
“Nothing. Just making sure I got everything.” His pencil began flying across the pad again.
A few minutes later he glanced up at her. “You did well.”
“You forced me to do well.”
“And you resent it.”
“No. Well, maybe on one level. But it was necessary for me to remember. No matter how much it hurt. It was my job.” She sat up and braced herself. “Are you ready to show me the sketch?”
“Are you ready to see it?” He smiled faintly. “Hell, yes, you are.” He turned the pad around. “The shooter.”
He'd sketched in the rifle pressed against the face of the man.
She flinched and then forced herself to concentrate on the face. “He looks too . . . smooth. The face was thin, but there were wrinkles around his eyes when he squinted.”
Morgan turned the pad back and began to work. “Ears.”
“Close to his head, I think. I didn't see. . . . The rifle was—”
“Think about it.” His tone was hard, incisive, demanding, as his pencil moved over the pad. “You remembered the sideburns. You have to remember the ears.”
“I'll remember. Give me a minute.”
“Just spit it out. You're on a roll.”
“For God's sake, give me a break.”
He glanced up at her. “Is that what you want from me?”
Hardness. Coolness. Without mercy.
No, she didn't want a break from him. She wanted exactly what she was being given. Intelligence. Dedication. Determination. “Hell, no.”
“I didn't think so.”
She closed her eyes, remembering. “He had small ears, close to his head, and his lobes were full, almost plump. . . .”
“I think we're as close as we're going to get.” Morgan got to his feet. “We'll go over them again after you've taken a nap.”
“I don't need a nap. I can look at the sketches now.”
“You could look, but would you see them? It's been seven hours. You're getting woozy. I wasn't easy on you.”
“No.” Her gaze was fastened on the pad. “Those likenesses are really close, Morgan. Are we going to send them to Leopold?”
“Maybe.”
“What?”
“Don't get edgy. We'll get an ID. There are other sources that may be faster.” He moved toward the door. “Take a nap while I clean these up. We'll talk later.”
“I want to talk now. I didn't work my ass off to get those sketches right to have them end up anywhere but in the hands of people who can find and ID these men.”
“One's already been ID'd.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
He held up the second sketch they'd worked on. “George Lester. He was the man who was driving the blue Toyota and tried to put you down.”
“How do you know who he is?”
“I called a friend, and he checked and found that the police had done a fingerprint and dental check on him. Definitely George Lester from Detroit. Very ugly customer but a loner. That's going to make it difficult for us.”
“Dental check? You make it sound—” She stopped. “He's dead?”
He shrugged. “I didn't know we'd need him.”
“You killed him?”
“He was going after you. It would have been only a matter of time before he got you. It seemed the reasonable thing to do.”
“Killing is never reasonable.”
“I beg to disagree. But this time it wasn't smart. I was only interested in getting him off your case, not finding his connections. Now we'll have to start at square one.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“It would only have upset you. You have a soft heart. You didn't even kill Al Habim when he ta
rgeted you. It seemed the most efficient way to protect you.”
So casual. So cool.
He glanced back over his shoulder as he opened the door. “That's right,” he said, as if reading her mind. “One cold son of a bitch. But there are uses for men like me. You'll probably find a few before we're done.”
She stared at the door after it had shut behind him.
She was filled with shock, confusion, and a sense of foreboding.
There are uses for men like me.
But she didn't know anyone who would dare to try to use Judd Morgan.
Okay. Rest. Think. Analyze the situation. Decide if she could place even a small amount of trust in a man who had killed a man because it was efficient.
5
“Shit!”
Powers snatched up the report off the fax machine, scanned it, and then dialed Betworth. “The report just came in from Quantico on the man in the stairwell, sir.”
“Morgan?”
“How did you—” Sometimes he thought the bastard was psychic. “Yes, they had trouble with the video or we would have had the ID sooner. You expected him to turn up here?”
“It was always a possibility. We didn't think Morgan could make the connection, but we weren't certain. And according to his file, you never know how Morgan is going to jump. But I would have thought he'd show up right after the dam break. I had the CIA ready to gather him in if he decided to do a little snooping. I was a little worried about John Logan's connection with Graham.”
“Logan?”
“He was pulling every string he could to have Graham put in a safe house after his wife was shot. And it was Logan who tried to get the sanction lifted on Morgan several months ago. He's got a lot of influence. I had a hell of a time blocking it.”
“We've had Logan under surveillance since Graham disappeared. He's at his home in California and hasn't tried to make contact.”
“Have you been able to monitor his phones?”
“No way. He's got a state-of-the-art security and communication system.”
“Then I suggest you'd better figure a way to find out what we need. I understand he's very fond of his wife. Good-bye, Powers.”
“I have sketches of the other two men Alex saw at Arapahoe Junction,” Judd said as soon as Galen answered. “I need to know who they are.”
“Alex gave you descriptions? You know how tricky memory can be. Can you rely on her?”
“Yes.”
“No doubts?”
“No doubts.”
“Can you fax them?”
“I think you'd better come and pick them up.”
“You're halfway across the country. Why?”
“I may need you here. I have a bad feeling. . . . Have you told Logan about Alex's injury?”
“Not yet.”
“It's just as well. I don't need Logan upset enough to get in my way. How soon can you get here?”
“I'm on my way.” He hung up.
Morgan sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out the sketches. He threw the other two sketches aside to look at the one they'd worked on last—the shooter. He drew a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He'd almost blown it. Exhausted as Alex had been, she'd noticed his reaction. He had to be more careful.
Careful? The idea was laughable. He'd known that safety was out the window the minute he finished that sketch. Until then there had been a chance that the dam break didn't have anything to do with Z-3.
Okay, he could still back off and disappear. He could find another way to keep Alex safe.
Alex.
What the hell? He'd give it a little more time. He'd clean up these sketches while Alex was napping and get a final approval before giving them to Galen. It should be only a matter of hours before he arrived. Galen never wasted time when he went into motion.
“You shouldn't be up.” Morgan got up from his chair and came toward her. “Why didn't you call me? I would have helped you.”
“I'm fine.” She brushed by him and went toward the fire. “A little cold.”
“You need time to heal, and I pushed you hard today. You're tired and your body temperature probably dropped. You should try to get more sleep.”
She held out her hands to the blaze. “I didn't mean to sleep at all.” She had thought she was so disturbed she would lie there for hours, but she'd dropped off almost immediately. “What have you been doing?”
“Cleaning up the sketches. Waiting for Galen.”
“Galen?”
“A friend. He's coming to pick up the sketches and make sure that I haven't totally maimed you.”
“What business is it of his if you have?”
“Now, that's not in keeping with your philosophy. Isn't everyone supposed to be their brother's keeper?”
“In a perfect world. This world isn't perfect. Why is this Galen worried about me?”
“He recommended me to Logan.”
“So it's pure self-interest.”
“Not entirely. Galen is one of the good guys. He's generally a cynical bastard, but he's like you—he wants to go around righting wrongs. He even tried to right a wrong done to me.” He smiled faintly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“If he's your friend, I wouldn't call that a mistake.”
“There are friends and then there are friends.”
“What's that supposed to mean? No, don't tell me. You wouldn't get close enough to commit to a friend.”
“Not willingly. But even I'm not perfect.”
“What does this Galen do? Is he a criminal like you?”
“He's an information specialist. He has contacts all over the world. He arranges things and smooths paths that need smoothing.”
“Legally?”
“Sometimes.” He handed her the sketches. “Look at them. If there are any changes, let me know.”
She glanced through the sketches. “They look good to me. I can't see anything I'd want to change. You're really very good. I don't know how you— Wait. This isn't right.” She was staring at the sketch of the shooter. “You've given him a tiny scar on his left cheek.”
“Didn't you tell me to put that in?”
She shook her head. “I'm sure I— Maybe I did. I was so tired.”
“That's an understatement. You were exhausted.”
“It's hard to remember. It looks right. . . .”
“I can take it out.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Let me think about it.”
“Whatever you say.” He took the sketches from her. “I'll set them up against the wall. I put your camera over on that chair. I'd like you to take some shots of the sketches before we turn them over to Galen.”
She nodded. “Good idea.” She moved across the room. “I still think we should give the sketches to Leopold. You may trust this Galen, but I don't.”
“Well, then you'll have the photographs, won't you? Galen has contacts in areas that Leopold doesn't know exist. Logan has had him working on gathering information since your friend Sarah's shooting.”
“Then I assume he's a criminal too?”
“Not exactly.” He finished setting up the sketches. “No Leopold. Lester's demise will make things very difficult for me with the authorities. It doesn't matter that he was a scumbag and a murderer. It wouldn't matter that he tried to kill you. I'm the one who'd land in jail for a year or two while I waited for the courts to get around to me. They don't understand vigilante justice.”
“Neither do I.” She focused on the first sketch. “You could have called the police instead of killing Lester.”
“Too much red tape. People get killed wading through red tape.”
She shook her head.
“Look at it this way. Suppose you could have run across an associate of one of those kamikaze pilots in the ruins of the World Trade Center. Would you have called the police and trusted that the courts would kill him for you?”
Smoke, tears, pain, and helpless rage.
She took the picture. “It's no
t the same thing.”
“Anything that strikes at the heart is always the exception to the rules we make for ourselves. Remember how you felt in that moment?”
“Every day. Every minute.” She took the final photograph and turned away. “I'm finished. You can package the sketches to give to your friend.”
“Does that mean you're resigned to letting me help you get these assholes?”
“It appears you've already gotten one of them.”
“That's an evasion.”
She met his gaze. “I'm not resigned to anything. I don't trust you. You told me I'd find a use for you and I did. If you had let me go, Leopold could have arranged for me to have a session with a police artist. I don't owe you anything.”
“I didn't say you did. I'm the one who has a debt to pay off.” He shrugged. “And it makes me uncomfortable. The sooner I get rid of it, the better.”
“Take me back to Denver and we'll call it even. I don't want your help and I certainly don't want your company.”
“Do you suppose you can put up with it while I check that wound? You can't do it yourself yet.”
She opened her mouth to tell him no and then closed it. She sat down in the chair and opened his shirt that she wore as a pajama top. “Why not? You're responsible for it.”
“That's what I like, a heart full of forgiveness.” He unwound the bandage and lifted the pad. “The doctor did a good job. Very neat stitches. Couldn't have done better myself.”
“You're a doctor as well as an artist?” she asked mockingly. “Amazing.”
“Don't be ugly. I'm a man of many talents. I wouldn't have liked the job of extracting the splinters and cleaning out this wound, but I've had enough battlefield experience to sew you up.”
She wished she hadn't let him touch her. Her flesh was tingling beneath his fingers. Not as it had in the stairwell at the hotel. There was no comfort, no security this time. It was . . . sensual . . . disturbing.
He must have felt the tension, because his gaze shifted to her face. His hands became still for an instant before he put a clean pad on the wound. “Looks like it's healing pretty well now.” He wrapped the bandage over her shoulder. “Be sure you keep taking those antibiotics and pain pills.”
“Of course. I'm not a masochist.” She buttoned up the shirt. “I'm going to get well as quickly as I can.”
Dead Aim Page 8
