“Somebody has figured out we’re working together.”
“Our visit to the Institute, Bobbi. I introduced you as Roberta.”
She pursed her mouth. “Maybe. What about you? What did Ford want?”
“It was a shocker. Lani Dixon is dead.”
“No!”
“That’s what Ford told me. Let’s check the 11:00 news.”
Galway picked up the remote and found Fox 5. They had to wait four minutes, but the story was at the top of the news.
“Mrs. David Dixon was found dead on the patio of her Georgetown home late this afternoon. Police have not provided a cause of death at this time, and Dr. David Dixon has declined to comment.
“Mrs. Dixon, known to many as Lani, was just forty years old and was well known in political and social circles. Originally from Scottsdale, Arizona, she was a competitive horsewoman and a strong supporter of many worthwhile causes.”
Next news item.
“Short and to the point,” Bobbi said and muted the TV.
“Ford said she went out a third floor window. Didn’t say whether the window was open or smashed. Broken neck.”
“Neck broken before or after she went through the window?”
“No idea,” Malone said.
“You didn’t think she was suicidal when we talked this afternoon.”
“No, and I still don’t think so. But I believe we’re fairly assured that Conrad Sherry is in town.”
“And what are you thinking?”
“I guess I’m wondering if Big Brother is taking care of weak spots. I think with a little pressure, Lani would have told us a great deal more.”
“This is getting worse and worse, Oak.”
“Ford thought association with me wasn’t very healthy. Maybe we should send you to Europe for a couple weeks.”
That put some fire in her gray eyes. “Forget it!”
“But, Bobbi. . . .”
“You invited me into this enterprise, Oak. Don’t be an asshole. Now you’re stuck with me.”
She took a long swig of her drink. Her eyes didn’t lose intensity.
Oak sipped his Scotch. It was good Scotch.
Malone didn’t mind being stuck with her, actually enjoyed it, but he sure as hell didn’t want to put her at risk. He suspected he wouldn’t get far with his argument.
“Okay, you’re entitled to be stubborn. I still like you.”
She dipped her head at him. The light from the TV flickered along her cheek.
“This Sherry guy,” he said, “is pretty direct. He tried to come right into my house, and I didn’t find a weapon on him when I had him on the ground, though I didn’t get as far as a good search. I’d give even odds that he probably walked in on Lani Dixon. He tried to bang your door down.”
“Simpleton.”
“Good football player in high school, according to his hometown newspaper. A lineman. Goes straight ahead. Uses those big hands.”
“As in to break someone’s neck.”
“Yeah, I’d think so. So we keep our eyes open. Don’t give him a chance to get close. I got my Walther back, by the way.”
“You’ll have to carry it. I’m not supposed to. I think that Detective Carson wanted to arrest me for shooting my door.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“What’s the next step, Oak? You were going to tell me when Ford called.”
“I’ll tell you in the morning, after I’ve slept on it.”
He took some time to clean the Walther since he didn’t know what the ballistics lab had done with it, and then he headed to the bathroom for a shower. Once he was ensconced in the hide-a-bed, he thought about Bobbi for awhile before falling asleep.
He had to keep her out of the line of fire somehow.
*
Sherry was back in his room at the Best Western after midnight.
Licking his wounds.
The bitch got him in the right forearm. The bullet went right through but didn’t break a bone. Nicked the bone, probably, judging by the pain. Bone pain was the worst.
If he hadn’t immediately dropped to the welcome mat, the next three would have taken him for sure. As soon as he thought she was through shooting, he rolled to the right, regained his feet, and ran like hell. She had yelled that she was calling the cops.
His blue windbreaker had caught most of the blood and was soaking in the bathroom sink. He’d wrapped his arm with one of the motel’s towels, and when he’d last checked, the flow of blood was almost stopped. In the morning, he’d go out somewhere to find some bandages. Antiseptic, too.
He wasn’t going to get much sleep because the pain made it difficult to concentrate. He made some of the instant coffee the motel provided. Sitting at the small desk, he fired up his iPad and went to check his account balance. It showed up as $223,643. A deposit of $150,000 had been made two hours before, just as he’d negotiated with the Chair.
Conrad, now Dexter Flynn, wasn’t thrilled to still be in the country. He’d told the Chair as much and complained that every cop in the country was looking for him, and the man had bumped the payment by fifty grand. He was supposed to get 150 each for Malone and Galway, too, so he was sticking around for that. Then he’d have enough money to stay in Aruba permanently. It might be a little iffy getting out of the country, but he was happy enough with his new ID. The four-day growth of beard was helping, and there was a shadow of beard on his license and passport ID pictures.
He checked his wound. Still seeping a little.
The Dixon woman had been easy. She was so damned beautiful that he’d almost decided to take a little extra time for funsies because it had been so long, but no, it was supposed to be a suicide. No defensive wounds or other forensic evidence. He’d shoved the door open, stepped inside, and as soon as he’d kicked the door shut, he wrapped an arm around her neck and snapped it.
She yelped once. He caught her before she fell, hoisted her over his shoulder, and climbed the stairs. It was a pretty grand house. Bunch of bucks in it. The third floor was three times larger than the cabana he rented in Aruba. He found a window on the back side, cranked it open, and shoved the body out. Then down the stairs and out the back way through a sliding glass door. Over a fence, and he was home free. And richer.
The Chair had given him the address of Galway in Alexandria, told him that both Galway and Malone would likely be there, and Sherry had located it easily enough. He had staked it out for over three hours, not seeing any activity at all, and beginning to wonder if he had the right address.
Then the door opened and Malone came out.
He should have taken Malone right in the parking lot, but worried that the man might have a gun. He always seemed to have one. And Sherry didn’t use guns or knives. His hands and his strength had always been enough. He let Malone drive away in a blue Chevy and waited a half hour.
He was certain Galway was still in the condo, and he knew he could quickly break the door down, so he went for it.
And damned if she didn’t have a gun.
Bitch.
An hour later, he’d made more coffee and was trying to watch some old movie on TV to take his mind off his arm. It wasn’t working.
His cell phone chirped.
Blocked caller.
“November.”
“Good job on the first one. As soon as I saw the news, I made the deposit.”
“I checked on that.”
“Where are you with the next one?”
“The bitch shot me.”
“What!”
“Not bad, but I’ll have to go back after her.”
“And Malone?”
“Haven’t seen Malone yet,” he lied.
“You’ve got to get him soon,” the Chair said.
“I oughta just head for an airport.”
“We have an agreement.”
“I know. I’m working on it.”
“It’s got to be today.”
“Maybe. I’m the one taking the risks, so I’ll
decide when it’s right.”
The Chair didn’t argue. Just disconnected.
*
Galway was back in her time zone, and she woke up as usual at 5:00 in the morning. Only to find that Malone was already up, had coffee made, and was stretched out on the couch watching the news.
When she came out of the hallway, Oak quickly took his feet off the coffee table and sat up.
“Morning, Bobbi.”
“Good morning. Do you want some breakfast?”
“I already looked. You don’t have any.”
“There’s grapefruit and cantaloupe.”
“No one in the civilized world would call that breakfast.”
“Call it a snack, then. Do you want some?”
“Under that condition, sure. Nothing new on Dixon this morning.”
Bobbi did some slicing and dicing and got herself a cup of coffee. She brought plates into the living room.
It’s almost like being married.
She handed him a plate and fork and then sat in one of the chairs.
“Did you figure out what we’re doing next?”
“I did. Seems to me that when Institute transactions are made, no matter who’s responsible for the decision, there’s going to be a record on the computer. Maybe even destination accounts. I’d love to tie those accounts to the names we’ve got.”
Bobbi was a little dubious. “There is probably something on the computer, but Oak, they wouldn’t use actual names. An alias of some kind is likely. And passwords galore. If there are secret accounts of some kind, they might not even be accessed from the Institute computer.”
“But those dollars leaving the Institute have to go somewhere, don’t they?”
“True. We might find an exporting account. Maybe even track the transaction to some receiving account.”
“It’s something in the right direction. I think it’s worth checking out. And Lord knows that you know your way around passwords.”
The program on her laptop did.
“So you’re talking breaking and entering.”
“Uh huh. Entering, but not breaking. Maybe just borrowing some info.”
“Did you happen to notice those door locks are controlled by key pads?”
“I did. They’re Schlage locks. It might take me six seconds to get around them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“And you want me to go along with this?”
“My dear, you’re the one who knows computers. I’d be totally lost.”
In some instances, people would call this a criminal enterprise. Nothing they found out could be used as evidence. She’d been employed by Malone International Investigations for four days, and was already looking at prison time.
“Plus,” Malone added, “we’d know what’s in the computer if we sicced some cops on the Institute. Let the cops find the evidence rather than using whatever we find.”
“It could be rigged to erase itself if anyone tries to hack their way in.”
“No skin off our noses. They lose data we don’t even know about. Could be a desirable outcome.”
“And I’d have to get dressed up in black for a midnight raid?”
“Oh, no. We’ll go over in a couple hours.”
“In broad daylight!”
“Best time of all. It’s Saturday. Everyone takes the weekend off.”
*
“First thing Monday morning since Riyadh is seven hours ahead, buy up those shares we need.”
Alicia already had that on her mental calendar, but she didn’t say so to the Chair.
“And then, you’ve seen the news?”
“I have. About the Vice Chair.”
“Tragic,” he said. “I don’t know what she was thinking. But we need to clean up. Transfer everything out of her accounts and divide it up equally between you, the Treasurer, and myself. Then close her account.”
An equal share. That was progress. That meant around 6.3 million dollars more than the 7 million she already had. If Jeffrey caved in, and the Institute collapsed, she had a way out. Hampstead thought she might pack a ready-to-go bag today. She wouldn’t need much, just her important papers and a change of clothing. She could buy anything she needed anywhere in the world.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
“I know you will, my dear. You’re the best there is.”
And I might get better.
*
“Nervous?” Malone asked her.
“Yes, damn it! There’s no window to see into that room. What if someone’s in there?”
“We just say, ‘sorry, wrong office.’”
“Oh, like that’ll work.”
Oak wasn’t carrying anything beyond his Walther holstered at his back under his tan sport coat and his auto lock pick gun. He was certified to carry the first, but the latter not so much. Bobbi had a nice leather portfolio containing her laptop. Fully charged and ready to rock and roll.
He turned into the building entrance and pulled the glass door open for Bobbi. Ever the gentleman.
There was one couple in conversation near the elevators. An older man sat on a sofa, leafing through a file folder.
The security guard at the desk looked up and Malone waved at him. “Mornin’, Mel.”
“Good morning, sir.”
The elevator was right at lobby level, and the doors parted obediently. The couple engaged in dialogue didn’t even glance at them.
Malone punched the button for the seventh floor, in case Mel was watching the indicator light. They would walk back down a floor. He might have to pick a stairwell lock on the sixth.
He grinned at Bobbi, but she didn’t smile back.
He did have to open a lock on the self-locking stairwell door on the sixth floor. Pulled on vinyl gloves first, and gave a pair to Bobbi. Inserted the right angle pick into the key slot, then the long tongue of the electric powered gun above it. Pulled the trigger four times to nudge the tumblers, and used the first pick to turn the lock.
“Where do you get something like that?” Bobbi asked.
“On the Internet, where else?”
When he pulled the door open and peeked into the hallway, he found it entirely deserted. They walked down to the first “Employees Only” door for the Institute, and Malone pointed out the key slot below the keypad on the door knob escutcheon.
“That’s for a pass key that overrides the key pad.”
It took less than six seconds, and he pushed the door open. They stepped into a small reception area.
“Little heavy on the yellows, don’t you think?”
“Come on, hurry up.”
She sounded a little agitated.
The door on the right would open into the Institute reception room. The door on the left could go anywhere. He chose the door straight ahead, tried the knob, and found it locked. Ms. Hampstead didn’t trust anyone. And that was promising.
Again, the auto lock pick worked its wonders, and then he stuffed it into his coat pocket.
This was a generously sized office, again finished in yellow. Behind the desk on a credenza was a computer work station.
Bobbi didn’t say a word but went around the desk and sat in the chair. She pulled her laptop out of the briefcase and set it up next to the work station. Turned it on. Turned on the computer terminal.
She connected the two with a USB cable.
Two screens flickered to life, and Bobbi’s vinyl clad fingers danced on the keys of one machine, then the other. Oak couldn’t keep up with the screens that popped up with menus and files.
But Bobbi could. She tried different combinations, backed out, tried another.
Finally, after twenty minutes, she spoke. “Right there.”
Five more minutes, then she started closing everything down.
“You get something?”
“I got it all.”
There was no one in the hallway when they let themselves out, and they used the stairwell for the desce
nt. Malone collected the vinyl gloves and stuffed them in his coat pocket along with the pick. Mel didn’t even look up when they left the building and moved into the sunshine.
The humidity was high.
Three block walk to the car, and Oak popped the locks with the remote. Bobbi slid into the passenger seat, and Malone skirted the back end to reach the driver’s door. He got in, started the car for the air conditioning, and looked at Bobbi.
A little perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. Just like himself.
Her hands were shaking.
“Do you get used to this?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess you do.”
“Hold me, please.”
He was happy to do that. Holding her felt good.
The tremors died away after a few minutes.
“Jesus,” Bobbi said.
“You did well. I knew you would.”
She turned her face up to him, her eyes searching his.
Well, hell. He kissed her, felt a moment’s hesitation, and then she was pressing her lips hard to his. Her lips parted.
Hungry.
Chapter Fourteen – Sunday, June 23
The Vice Chair called him, and the Chairman regretted giving out his phone number.
“I just saw it on the news.”
Either Mears didn’t watch the news often, or Arizona got the East Coast news a day or two late. Probably the former. A suicide in Washington D.C. probably wouldn’t have rated an item in the Arizona Republic except that Lani was originally from Scottsdale.
“Yes, well, it is unfortunate. She was a great source of information.”
“But, God! She was young. We, uh, we had a history.”
A lot of people had a history with Lani. Yours truly.
“Treasurer. . . .”
“Did she jump?”
What Mears was asking, really, was whether or not Lani had assistance. He was probably worried about his own position now. Malone had really spooked him.
“The medical examiner hasn’t ruled yet, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I’ve been following the news reports.”
“Maybe Malone got to her,” Mears said. “I’ll bet that’s it.”
“I don’t believe so. We’re watching Malone.”
“He’s the one who started all of this.”
Actually, Tracy Dinmore started it all by being so greedy and paranoid. But that damned Malone was like an angry crocodile with a hapless deer. He kept shaking his head, but wouldn’t let go of the body.
Solid Oak Page 17
