She didn’t disagree with him. “Are you forgetting that there were five men at the car accident? You can’t be sure that Dwight didn’t see you.”
“He was unconscious the entire time.”
“What about Michelle?”
Will couldn’t answer that. He didn’t know what would happen if Michelle Spivey recognized him. She was defiant one second, then terrified the next.
“Wilbur—”
“What about Sara’s message?” he asked. “The first word she wrote on the ceiling was Beau. Sara’s second word was bar. Maybe she overheard Beau talking to Dwight. Or they went to the bar. I know that you—”
“Here’s what I know.” Amanda threw one of the stapled reports at him. “Charlie’s findings at the motel.”
Will stared at the pages. His head was hurting too much to try to decipher the words. He wasn’t going to use a ruler to pin down each letter like a first grader, especially not in front of Amanda.
He settled on a belligerent, “So?”
She snatched the report out of his hands. “Michelle Spivey stabbed Carter to death. Her fingerprints were on the headboard. The evidence suggests that she jumped on him, straddled his legs, braced her right hand by his shoulder, then stabbed him seventeen times in the neck, chest and belly.”
Will tried to frame the killing frenzy into a positive. “She’s fighting back. She could be an ally.”
“She’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I can’t risk her nutting up around you. At worst, she could stab you to death. At best, she could tell her captors exactly how she knows you.”
Will shrugged, because he had already decided that the next time it came down to Sara’s life or his, he was going to make the decision for both of them.
Amanda thumbed through the pages of another report. “The man you killed at the car accident. He called himself Merle. He’s been identified as Sebastian James Monroe. Ex-Army Corps of Engineers. Dishonorable discharge for domestic violence. He’s kept his nose clean since then, but obviously, he’s been up to something.”
Will didn’t ask her how she’d come across the information. The Pentagon didn’t usually volunteer details without a warrant and ten miles of paperwork. “Domestic violence. Does that include rape?”
“It does not.”
He couldn’t tell if she was lying. “What about Vince? The guy I shot in the chest.”
“Oliver Reginald Vale. Also ex-Army, but he has no overlaps with Monroe that we can find. Honorable discharge five years ago. No rap sheet. And going by the fact that these men chose country-western pseudonyms corresponding with the first letters of their names, we can assume that Dwight is the Dash from Sara’s bathroom ceiling message. Obviously a nickname.”
“Dash,” Will repeated. The name stirred up a boiling fury. Will couldn’t remember a damn thing about the man beyond his average height, weight and coloring. All of his attention had been on the conscious men. He’d thought Hurley was in charge.
He told Amanda, “Sara’s message said that Dash thinks Hurley is dead.”
“And we plan to keep it that way.”
She was missing the point, probably on purpose. Sara had told them that what Dash thought about Hurley was what mattered. Which meant that their focus right now should be on identifying Dash. If they didn’t know who he was, then they wouldn’t know how to find him, and if they couldn’t find Dash, then they would likely never find Sara.
So, this is what they had to do: Track down the social security numbers for Hurley, Carter, Vale and Monroe. Run credit reports that listed addresses, cell phones, credit cards, vehicle registrations. Talk to their neighbors about their comings and goings. Mine the phone numbers they had called, the stores or restaurants they had frequented. Look for overlaps. Methodically put together known associates until Dash’s real name, or an identifying feature, told them who he was.
Or Will could fuck his stupid brain and ask Amanda the obvious question. “Are Dash’s fingerprints in the military database?”
“They are not in any searchable database. We have the blood from Dash’s shoulder wound in the back seat of the Chevy Malibu, but that will take another twenty-four hours to process. And you know as well as I that if Dash’s fingerprints don’t come up in the databases, then it’s highly unlikely his DNA profile will lead us to his front door. At best, it will give us confirmation after the fact.”
Will rubbed his jaw with his fingers. He felt the rough stubble of his beard. He hadn’t shaved this morning. He was wearing the same gray suit from the day before. He had sat on his couch all night listening to Sara’s text message, trying to hear something in her voice that told him she was okay.
All he kept coming back to was this:
At 4:54, Sara had sent him a message.
What had happened at 4:55?
He said, “Dash is at the top of the IPA.”
“Correct,” Amanda said. “Carter, in his capacity as an informant, told the FBI that Dash is the shot-caller for the group. He didn’t start the IPA, it’s been around for ten years or more, but under Dash’s leadership, he’s managed to bring focus and organization to the group. The FBI deigned to share this information with me just this morning. The description they have for Dash is about as good as yours—which is to say, nothing. And the Emory CCTV video was as useless as the both of you. Dash knew exactly where the cameras were. He wore a hat and kept his head down. The man is incredibly adept at avoiding identification. You could say that Dash puts the invisible in the Invisible Patriot Army.”
Will gripped his hands together and rested them on her desk. “Amanda, I am begging you. Put me undercover. I will find Dash. I will serve him up to you on a platter.”
Amanda scooped up another report. She read, “‘Comparison weapon is a registered Glock 19 Gen5 with reversed magazine catch and slide stop lever for a left-handed shooter. The NIST algorithm using the CMC method produced a probability rating of—’”
“It’s my gun,” Will said.
“Your Glock was used to kill Vale in the motel room.”
Will tried to shrug again, but the twinge in his rib stopped him.
“You discharged your weapon twice at the car accident. You killed a suspect. You shot a second one as he was fleeing. You beat the hell out of a third. Technically, you should be suspended with pay pending an internal investigation.”
“Suspend me,” Will said. He had a plan. Sebastian James Monroe. Oliver Reginald Vale. Adam Humphrey Carter. Robert Jacob Hurley. He would circle their lives like a coyote going in for the kill.
“Stay in your seat, Wilbur.” Amanda looked past Will into the hallway. “What’ve you got?”
Faith dropped a pile of sealed evidence bags onto Amanda’s desk. She looked at Will, then did a double take.
“Faith?” Amanda was waiting.
Faith rested her hand on Will’s shoulder. She told Amanda, “This is everything Ragnersen had in his pockets. They’re going through his truck. Zevon already found a sawed-off shotgun under the seat.”
Will rubbed his jaw. The name Ragnersen drew a blank, but Zevon Lowell was the GBI agent who had met them at the motel last night. He asked Amanda, “What’s going on?”
“An investigation. What did you think was going on?” Amanda pushed around the bags on her desk. A man’s leather wallet. An iPhone. A set of car keys. A folding knife.
“Wait.” Will moved the knife around inside of the bag so he could get a better look. “This is mine. I stabbed Carter with it. The last time I saw it, it was sticking out of his crotch.”
Amanda said, “I imagine that’s the four-inch blade that was repeatedly stabbed into Carter’s chest and torso.”
Will could not stop staring at the knife. He forced his thoughts to sharpen on this one piece of evidence. Will had stabbed Carter with this knife. Michelle had used it to stab Carter. Someone had removed the knife from Carter’s dead body, which meant that the someone who had the knife had been at the motel last night.
A ma
n’s leather wallet. Keychain with a GMC Denali logo. An iPhone in a black rubber case.
Will had to swallow before he could speak. “Where did you get this?”
Amanda motioned for Faith to shut the door. She sat back in her chair. She took off her glasses. She folded her arms across her chest.
She told Will, “The knife was found on Beau Ragnersen.”
Beau. Bar.
“He’s an ex-Army medic attached to Special Forces. The Green Berets. The file on him is too tight for me to break open. We’ve sent the paperwork up the chain to the Pentagon, but it’ll be at least a month before we hear anything. All my contact can give me is that Ragnersen saw heavy action in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was awarded a Purple Heart and took shrapnel in his back.”
Will recalled Zevon’s cryptic conversation with Amanda last night. The special agent worked with the drug squad. He hadn’t gathered all of that background information on Beau Ragnersen in the two hours it had taken Amanda to drive up to Rabun County.
Will quoted Zevon: “‘He makes his money down in Macon.’”
Faith sat down beside Will. She gave him a worried look. “Ragnersen runs black tar heroin.”
“Jesus.” Will couldn’t hide his shock. Black tar heroin was usually cut with black shoe polish or sometimes even dirt. Georgia’s distinctive red clay gave it a brownish color. You didn’t use it unless you were desperate or had a death wish.
Amanda said, “When I was in uniform, I saw a lot of vets coming home from Nam chasing the dragon. Shooting it up calcifies your veins. Distilling it into nose drops can cause you to choke to death on your own blood. Suppositories lead to internal bleeding. There’s no easy way out of it that doesn’t take you through the morgue.”
Will rubbed his jaw. This was why he hated drugs. As a kid, he’d seen too many adults do too many unspeakably terrible things in search of a fix.
Amanda said, “The Mexicans have a stranglehold on the H flowing into the suburbs. Black tar is mostly used by minorities. In Macon, this means African Americans. The price point is on par with crack in the mid-1980s. Ragnersen isn’t a big dog in the trade. He’s established a niche market.”
Faith had her notebook out. She said, “Beau’s serious bank comes from pills, but not what you’re thinking. Antibiotics, insulin, statins—legitimate medications that people need but can’t afford. There’s a huge black market for it in Macon. Lots of uninsured people with chronic medical conditions. Macon PD picked him up twice with pills in his glove box. Unmarked Ziplocs. They assumed opiates. May of 2017, the lab result came back with Metformin and Beau’s record was cleared. The second time, February 2018, it was something called gabapentin. It’s used to treat a lot of things, but mostly nerve pain. The judge kicked him with time served.”
Amanda took over. “Macon PD suspects that Ragnersen is also an on-call medic—courtesy of his Army training, I would assume. He mostly works with the local gangs. If you get shot and don’t want the police asking questions at the hospital, he’s your man.”
Faith said, “Okay, I’ve got a wild hair on this one.”
Amanda waited.
“The Wells Fargo bank where Martin Novak was apprehended was just outside of Macon. One of Novak’s guys was shot in the belly. We were told in the meeting yesterday that there was no way the guy could’ve survived the gunshot wound without medical intervention.” She waited for Amanda to pick up on her train of thought, but when she didn’t, Faith asked her directly. “Do you think Beau Ragnersen got the bullet out?”
Amanda passed an autopsy report to Faith. “Sebastian James Monroe, aka Merle, the man who was killed by Will at the car accident, showed extensive abdominal scarring from a previous gunshot wound, likely received within the last two years. The report says he was patched up by someone with medical knowledge—a veterinarian or a surgical nurse.”
“Or a former special forces medic.” Faith snapped her fingers. “Jackpot. That puts Monroe at the Wells Fargo, which ties him to Novak. This is proof that Novak is connected to the IPA. You’ve got to tell the FBI. They can rain hellfire down on this thing.”
“Everything you’ve told me is either speculation or wishful thinking,” Amanda said. “The FBI has already been informed of your theory. They remain unconvinced.”
Faith tossed the report onto the pile. “Of course they do.”
“I want to make this very clear to both of you,” Amanda said. “Our focus is on finding Sara and Michelle Spivey. That’s it. The larger conspiracy pieces are not in our purview. The marshals have custody of Martin Novak. It is not the job of the GBI to tie Novak to the IPA. The FBI is investigating the bombing. It is not the job of the GBI to tie the IPA to the bombing. We are working an abduction and kidnapping case.”
Faith said, “So, we hammer everything but the nail?”
“Listen to me.” Amanda tapped her desk for attention. “Why do I have to keep reminding you of Waco and Ruby Ridge? The FBI has dealt with these paramilitary, white nationalist organizations far longer than we have.”
“Yeah, they’ve made them too white to fail.”
“Faith.” Amanda was clearly trying to hold in her temper. “We need to take a page from the history books. Do you want the GBI to turn Dash and the IPA into a group of martyrs that inspire the next generation of domestic terrorists, or do you want us to slowly, methodically work the case and bring about a solid conviction?”
Will didn’t give a shit about building a case. He was going to find Dash because that was how he would find Sara. “Where is Beau? Is he here?”
Faith waited for Amanda to nod her permission. “He’s cooling off downstairs.” She told Amanda, “On the plus side, we’ve arrested him for assaulting an agent. Beau wasn’t happy about being yanked out of bed in the middle of the night. He punched Zevon hard enough to break his nose.”
The middle of the night.
The phrase woke up Will’s brain. Beau hadn’t been arrested on a whim. Amanda had brought him in while Will was sitting on his couch waiting for the alarm to go off so he could do his fucking job and find Sara.
Amanda asked, “Wilbur, do you have something to say?”
He had a lot to say, but he settled on, “I want to talk to him.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Inside one of the evidence bags, Beau’s cell phone screen flashed with a notification. Faith turned her head to read, “It’s an email—gmail account with random letters and numbers. The subject line is ASAP, but that’s all I can see with the screen locked.”
Amanda stood up from her desk. She took her jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on. “Faith, bring his phone.”
Will opened the door. He kept his hand tight on the knob, fighting against the spin in his eyeballs. Amanda walked ahead of him, BlackBerry out, thumbs moving across the keys. Will’s vision turned rickety as he followed her down the hall, which had rolled out like a giraffe’s tongue. The fluorescent lights were strobing. Or he was having a stroke.
“You look like shit,” Faith hissed. “Either go home or ask Amanda for the other half of that pill.”
Will gritted his teeth, but that only made his headache worse. The lights were the problem. Someone had turned them up too high.
“You can barely walk straight.” Faith was no longer using her inside voice. “If you want to help Sara, then you need to look like a human being. Take the fucking pill.”
Will kept his fingers to the wall as he walked. She was worried about him. She always yelled when she was worried. He should probably acknowledge that in some way. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are, dumbass.” Faith used her teeth to rip open the evidence bag. Beau’s iPhone X dropped into her hand. It was the bigger kind that didn’t have a home button. Will guessed the black tar heroin and pill trade was pretty lucrative.
Amanda opened the door to the stairs. “Faith, I need you to do another meeting for me this afternoon.”
Faith muttered under her breath as she trundled down
the stairs behind Amanda. She was examining Beau’s phone. The screen was still locked. The case was black rubber with a corrugated grip. She peeled away the corners to see if there was anything hidden between the phone and the case.
Nothing.
The door opened below them. Two agents stood at the bottom of the stairs. They waited until Amanda was down before going up. Each one lifted his chin at Will, he guessed as a sort of recognition for what he was going through. Sara was the only reason they even saw him. Will had never felt a sense of camaraderie with anyone in this building aside from Faith and Charlie. Then Sara had started working here and after fifteen years, Will suddenly belonged.
Amanda was already halfway down the hall. Will had to lengthen his stride to catch up. She opened the door to the viewing room, but didn’t go in. She nodded for Faith to continue down the hall.
She told Will, “The FBI took Hurley into custody. They’re moving him out of state. We won’t get another bite at him. The bombing is a federal investigation. So long as the FBI keeps insisting there’s no connection to the IPA, we’ve got Dash all to ourselves.”
“We need to run social security numbers and—”
“It’s being handled, Will. We’ve been on it since last night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you up for this?”
He went into the viewing room. The lights were off. His headache instantly backed off a notch. He stood in front of the two-way mirror with his hands in his pockets. He stared at the man he assumed was Beau Ragnersen. The former soldier was slumped over the table with his cuffed hands gripped together. A chain ran through a metal ring on the table. Two plastic chairs were across from him. His head was down. Sweat rolled down his face. He had been arrested at least twice before, but that was Macon PD. A man who had cornered the market on desperate sick people knew the difference between wrangling with the locals and coming up against the full force of the state.
Faith opened the door. She said, “Hey, asshole.”
Beau looked up.
Faith showed him his iPhone. The facial recognition software scanned Beau’s features and unlocked the screen.
“Fuck!” Beau’s wrists jerked against the chains. The table was bolted down. All he could do was kick a chair into the wall.
The Last Widow: The latest new 2019 crime thriller from the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author Page 21
