The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  “Not just him. A lot of starry-eyed journalists woke up when they saw him hit rock bottom. It ain’t all Clark Kent out there, dig for a story, then have everyone cheering you on as you win a Pulitzer exposing the evil ways of the world. They forget those big corporate papers are usually part of major holdings. And those businesses didn’t get that big without a few backroom deals made by political types. In other words, don’t step on the wrong toes, especially when they’re attached to a sleeping tiger.”

  “He ever talk to you about it?” Griffin asked. “What he was investigating? Whose toes he stepped on?”

  “Not much more than what I’ve told you. All he wanted was something to pay the bills, so he could continue investigating, earn his name back. Thing is, we don’t have the budget those big papers have. I told him if he wanted to work on that on the side, he was welcome to it, but on his time and his dime.”

  “And what was it?”

  He didn’t answer right away, as though trying to decide at this late date if perhaps he’d said too much. “Where’s this going, anyway?”

  Griffin looked at Sydney, gave her a slight nod. She was good at garnering sympathy for the cause, so to speak. And she didn’t disappoint.

  “My father was murdered around the same time, and we think the cases might be connected. That his case and Mr. Ronson’s might have been involved somehow.”

  “But you’re with the FBI?”

  “I am. But I’m not investigating it for the FBI.”

  “Who was your father?”

  “Kevin Fitzpatrick.”

  And before either of them could say anything about it, he typed the name into his computer to see what would come up.

  Sydney took a breath, probably wondering the same thing as Griffin. Would anyone be monitoring her father’s name? God knew they had back when she’d been looking into the case. But perhaps Kane’s focus would now be elsewhere. “Santa Arleta . . .” Michaels apparently read what was on the screen, then nodded. “You’ll have to forgive me, but when I got the call you’d be coming out, I started thinking, you know, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to say anything. Pretty powerful people when they can get an entire police department and the coroner’s office to say he committed suicide. There is no way that man killed himself.”

  “But he was depressed.”

  “Yeah, he was depressed about not getting a decent press job. What do you expect? Pulitzer Prize winner forced to write copy for a two-bit paper funded by single white male ads? After the suicide ruling, well, first thing I did was hide his calendar and case notes, and they’ve sat there ever since.”

  “Can we see them?” Sydney asked.

  “Sure. They’re in the basement. Archived in the old classifieds.”

  They took the stairs down, the dull, industrial, once-white linoleum tiles now worn clear through to the cement in some spots. As they passed through the hallway, a line of fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the ballasts apparently close to giving out. Michaels led them into a room at the end of the hall, which held dozens of file cabinets. And though he’d apparently hidden the thing there eighteen years or so ago, he knew right where to go for it. Second drawer from the bottom, about midway back, he pulled out a file folder with a lot of carbon-copy type forms people must have filled out for whatever advertisements they’d bought.

  He handed it to Griffin, saying, “I think this is one of the reasons I’ve never bothered to clean out the place. In the back of my mind, I knew this was here. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Is there someplace we can sit down to read this?”

  “Hell. Take it. I never did feel safe having it here, but it wasn’t like I knew who to call.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing. Just do me a favor. Vindicate him.”

  Once outside the building, Griffin looked at the packet, about an inch thick. “Where to?”

  “Working lunch? There’s a Japanese restaurant on the other side of the freeway. Kamon’s on Sixteenth. I used to eat there back when I was a cop.”

  He gave her the keys, since she knew the area. Once in the car, he checked his voice mail, found out that Carillo had called. Griffin called him back.

  “I’m assuming you want the update on Piper’s brother?” Carillo said.

  “Yes. You found him?”

  “We weren’t the only ones. There were two goons at the kid’s school when I got there. I’m guessing they were Kane’s men.” Carillo briefed him on what happened.

  A mixture of relief and worry went through Griffin’s mind. Kane seemed to have a handle on every step they were taking. “Where is he?”

  “With a mutual friend. Safe for now,” he said, undoubtedly in case anyone was listening in. “Not that the kid can’t take care of himself to some extent. If not for his quick thinking, we wouldn’t have made it out of there.”

  “Runs in the family,” Griffin said, recalling Piper’s actions the night he met her. “We’ll touch base later.”

  Sydney pulled into the restaurant parking lot, a gray-blue building in a rundown strip mall. The interior, however, was pleasant, although a bit dark. Sydney asked for a table at the back, which would offer them a touch of privacy, and once seated, ordered an assortment of appetizers—gyoza, something called a firecracker roll, and stuffed mushrooms—which would allow them to easily eat while they worked.

  Griffin broke open the manila envelope, which was still sealed, curious as to what, if anything worthwhile, they might find. It appeared to be mostly pages torn from a spiral notebook, the majority handwritten, though there seemed to be several copies of newspaper articles. He handed half the stack to Sydney, then started sorting through the other half.

  “Any idea what we’re even looking for?” she asked after several minutes of reading.

  “I’m hoping it’ll jump out at us,” he said as the waitress brought the firecracker roll, which turned out to be seared tuna in some sort of panko-covered inari wrapper, then deep-fried and covered with a spicy sauce. Griffin popped one in his mouth, was surprised at how good it was, and when the waitress returned with the other two appetizers, he said, “Add another firecracker to the order.”

  Sydney looked up from a letter she was reading. “That’s usually the reaction when someone tries it for the first time.”

  He was about to quip that she should have ordered two to begin with, but his eye caught on a blue piece of paper with writing that did not look like Ronson’s. He picked it up, saw it was written on both the front and the back, and realized by the signature it was from Lydia Hettinger, the journalist’s widow Sydney had spoken with at Fort Marcy Park.

  Dear Mr. Ronson,

  I apologize for the brevity of the phone call. I no longer trust that I’m not being listened to or watched.

  The night my husband was killed, he met with an informant who promised to give him the information he needed to prove that Deputy White House Counsel Gannon Ferris was murdered. He called me that night, excited about the meeting, which is why I don’t believe he would go back to his room and kill himself. When the authorities found him, all his files were missing, or I would have gladly sent them to you along with his appointment book. They were not in his car or his motel room although he had them when he left.

  Unfortunately I have little else to offer. He did not discuss his work with me. The only thing I know for certain is that he received a call the morning before he left to meet with this informant, and I overheard part of it. He said something about meeting with Brooks about someone’s sins.

  I wish I could be of further help.

  Sincerely,

  Lydia Hettinger

  He gave the letter to Sydney to read. “Brooks?” she asked once she’d finished. “You think it was Parker Kane who met up with him that night?”

  “Assuming Kane is Brooks.”

  “S
ins? I’m assuming it’s the program Izzy was talking about?”

  “Probably.”

  “Which stands for . . . ?”

  “Strategic Integrated Network Case Management System. SINCMS, shortened to SINS.”

  “SINS? Devil’s Key? Who thinks of this stuff?”

  “The official name for the version that was sold to the various countries was simply called the product key. We didn’t hear about the Devil’s Key until rumors started to surface that there was a back door built into the SINS program.”

  “Well, you now have Brooks mentioned in the same sentence as SINS. If you’re looking for further proof, here it is.”

  “A nearly twenty-year-old letter isn’t going to do it.”

  Sydney pulled out another sheet. “How about a list of the major points that allegedly prove why Gannon Ferris was murdered? Looks like Ronson was on to something. Number one,” she read. “Intended to expose SINS. Number two, no gun found at scene. Number three, broken driver’s window on his car, blood on seat, seat in wrong position. Number four, Fort Marcy Park Police assigned homicide investigation have never worked homicide. Number five, no shot heard, even though there were houses located less than five hundred feet away . . .” She scanned the list. “It just gets worse from here. How’s it possible anyone could ignore— Did you know this? They fired the head of the FBI the day before Gannon Ferris’s alleged suicide . . . ?”

  “Are you starting to see a pattern here? That’s what they did to McNiel. You eliminate anyone who is getting too close to the issue. Whether it’s by removing them from power or killing them. Either method works. One’s just more permanent than the other.”

  Sydney stared at the document, then turned an accusing glance his way. “If Gannon Ferris was killed by government agents, because of the SINS program—”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Let’s say that’s the case. We just assume they’re working for the dark side. The point being, how is that different from a government-sanctioned kill order? Going after me, for instance? Or Orozco? You get the government’s blessing, it’s okay?”

  “Is anything I say going to make a difference in what you think?”

  She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. “Probably not. Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your answer.”

  “The reasons behind a kill order are for national security. The safety of our nation and the people who live in it. One life to protect many lives. What Kane is doing by killing anyone getting in his way is strictly to benefit a small group of individuals. A personal agenda. When Orozco stole the Devil’s Key, the possibility existed that he could turn it over to the enemy, that it could be used against us. Against our country. The kill order followed the key and who had possession.”

  “That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sydney. I—”

  “This whole Devil’s Key being the precursor to the next war, just because a handful of nasty countries discover we’re spying on them. That’s utter and complete bullshit. For God’s sake, we’ve been spying on them since the dawn of time. There has to be something we’re missing. Something bigger than a case management program that opens the back door into someone else’s computer . . .”

  It took him a moment to realize she had switched gears—and frankly, he was grateful. “There is. The program, the back door, it’s present in hundreds of thousands of computer chips that are already in circulation.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “There were some computer chips that were manufactured in China for the U.S. and European markets which contain the back door. It’s not that we can spy on a few countries running this program, it’s that this program can spy on everyone whose computer contains a chip with the back door. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a computer that isn’t running on one of those chips. Everyone from our government and our military to the local dry cleaners.”

  Sydney stared in disbelief. “That’s insane,” she said after a few seconds.

  “What’s insane are the countries who aren’t aware of it—and that’s the majority of them. They’re running power plants and nuclear reactors. I’d like to think that ours is one step ahead, but to replace every single chip . . .”

  “How can our government let something like that happen?”

  “Sometimes we don’t find things out until after the fact and then it’s a matter of damage control. If Kane gets the key, and he is part of the Network . . .”

  “Maybe he’s just in it for the money.”

  “God, I hope so, because simple greed is far more preferable. Until we find out otherwise, keep looking.”

  Several minutes later, Griffin was almost through his stack of papers, thinking they were once again striking out. It was nearing two o’clock and the waitress had long ago cleared the table, the majority of lunch diners gone. “I’m not seeing anything,” he said. “You?”

  She shook her head. “The only thing I have left are a few pages that look like they were from an appointment book. Unfortunately we don’t know whose, and none of the names on here mean anything. To me at least.”

  “Appointment book? Didn’t Lydia Hettinger mention something about an appointment book?” He dug through the pile of papers, looking for the blue sheet of notepaper.

  “I thought she said it was missing along with her husband’s case notes.”

  “Unless we read it wrong . . .” He found the note. “ ‘I would have gladly sent them to you along with his appointment book.’ ”

  “There is no book. Just a page torn from one.” She shook her head. “Can’t be from Lydia Hettinger. Look at the year. Her husband was dead by then.”

  “Then who?”

  “Everything ends in December. Isn’t that when Ronson allegedly killed himself?” She slid it across the tabletop. “Not much. Last entry December 5. ‘FCC Tuc. RC 2:00.’ Whatever that means.”

  “Federal Correctional Complex,” Griffin said. “In Tucson. But RC . . . ?”

  “The initials written on the back of my business card Tex and Carillo brought back from Mexico. What if RC is Ronson’s informant incarcerated at the federal prison?”

  “Good question. I think we need to contact McNiel.”

  “And if they’re listening?”

  “We’re going to have to take that chance. It’ll be quicker than calling the FCC to ask them for the name of everyone incarcerated there with those initials. We’re at a dead end, until we can figure out who RC is.”

  Griffin didn’t want to burn his own number by calling McNiel directly, and so used the restaurant phone, going through the operator to make a collect call.

  McNiel answered, accepting the charges. “Where are you?”

  “Sacramento.” He gave McNiel the restaurant phone number.

  “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

  Griffin waited by the phone, which was located at the bar, an area of the restaurant not used during the lunch hour. It rang and he picked it up.

  “Sorry,” McNiel said. “I needed to get to a secure landline. How are things?”

  “Progressing. We’ve run across a set of initials twice now, that we think is related to the case. Orozco wrote ‘RC has 112’ on the back of Sydney’s card, intending that she be notified. Sydney and I just found the initials of RC on a datebook from a dead investigative reporter in Sacramento. Something about Tucson Federal Correctional Complex with the time of two o’clock.”

  “The only name that comes to mind is Rico Chapman. Part of the W2 investigation. One of those names that keeps popping up, but is always discounted. Allegedly he was involved in the original computer program, or rather the design of the back door to it. He was picked up about twenty years ago on drug charges. None of his stories ever checked out.”

  “Maybe they haven’t checked out because there
was always someone making sure they didn’t. I’d say it’s high time to go see what he has to say.”

  “The sooner the better. There have been some significant developments. Kane’s asked that ATLAS be absorbed into his unit at the National Counterterrorism Center. He’s about to issue warrants for the entire team, if he hasn’t already. He said that preliminary ballistics are showing that your gun killed the guard at the Recorder.”

  “My gun, yes. His man pulled the trigger.”

  “And there’s conveniently no video. The good news is that Pearson’s stalling him as far as Fitzpatrick and Carillo, saying that the FBI can handle their own. Kane doesn’t have anything on them, but there’s a rumor he’s going to try to bring Carillo in for kidnapping Piper’s brother from the school. The FBI has sent a couple of agents out to the school to interview the witnesses. Apparently there’s a video showing Carillo pushing the boy into a car, which they construed to mean he was being forced.”

  “How long do you think we have?”

  “You and Tex? Less time than you think. Carillo likewise. Sydney . . . Look, Griffin. This could get ugly. Kane is threatened, and he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure he wins. Izzy may be the only one right now not on Kane’s radar. Thank God, because he’s actually got a halfway decent plan. Implement the program.”

  “The program?”

  “We have the key. Well, we will as soon as Lisette and Marc’s flight gets in from Venice. Izzy’s champing at the bit to get those numbers.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? All these years trying to block the program from being implemented . . .”

  “Kane’s running a half-assed version of it now, which is how he’s managing to stay on top of us. We need it to beat him at his own game. And if anyone can get it up and running, Izzy can. Izzy informs me that once he connects to the Internet and runs that code, you’ll have about forty-eight hours to get the evidence against Kane before Kane tracks Izzy. That’s not very long, Griffin.”

  “If Rico doesn’t have the evidence on Kane, we’ll find out who does.”