Under the Color of Law (15 page)

"How is he?" Kerney asked.

"He's got a mild concussion," Sloan said.

"The EMTs are gonna transport him to the hospital for a medical evaluation. Except for a laptop computer he doesn't know what else was taken. But the file cabinet where he keeps his test exams wasn't tampered with, so probably a student didn't do this."

"He was laid out neatly," Molina added.

"From the bumps on his head I'd say he was tapped once to put him down, and given a second hit to put him out."

"Not something a typical college kid would know how to do," Kerney said.

He looked at the papers, telephone, and desk lamp that were strewn on the floor. A chair had been overturned, and some books had been pulled off a bookshelf.

"Okay, let's say the perp panics when Brother Jerome shows up, and knocks him out to avoid discovery. As far as we know, only a laptop is missing. Why trash the office?"

Sloan shrugged.

"Maybe the perp was looking for something else."

"Like what?" Kerney said, scanning the office.

"The perp has the laptop and there's nothing left in plain view worth stealing. Were any of the offices closer to the entrance entered?"

"Nope," Sloan replied.

"The burglar made a beeline for this one."

"Brother Jerome sponsored Mitchell as a resident scholar," Kerney said.

"I thought about that," Sloan said.

"Any thief with half a brain would have waited a few more hours until the campus was quiet before pulling a break-in," Kerney said.

"Unless he was desperate to get his hands on something important."

"Like something of Mitchell's that wasn't in his room the night of the murder," Sloan said, eyeing the mess on the floor.

"I'd love to make that connection, Chief. If we can tie this to the homicide, then maybe I can get a handle on a motive."

"Assume it for now," Kerney said.

"None of us would be here if Father Mitchell hadn't been murdered in his room less than fifty yards away."

"This has a completely different MO than the Mitchell homicide," Molina said.

"I agree, LT," Sloan replied.

"But the crimes could still be linked."

Kerney focused on Sloan.

"Where are you with the Mitchell case?"

"Running into brick walls, Chief. I've got a few more leads to chase down that don't look promising. I'll know if I've got anything in the morning."

Kerney watched the EMT take a still wobbly Brother Jerome to the waiting ambulance.

"As soon as he's able, have Brother Jerome inventory everything in his office."

"I've already got it on my list, Chief."

"Start interviews now. Talk to the brothers, campus security, janitors, library staff-anybody who is usually around after night classes end."

Kerney glanced at Sal Molina.

"I want you and Detective Sloan to head up this investigation. Pull in as many people as you need. Soft-pedal it as an aggravated burglary, not connected to the Mitchell homicide."

"Whatever you say," Molina replied.

"As a precaution, let's button down the Brothers' residence," Kerney said.

"Put a uniformed officer on-site around the clock starting now. Call me if anything breaks."

Molina held his tongue until Kerney had limped his way out of the building.

"This isn't the way I want to spend my time," he said.

"I think the chief may be onto something here, LT," Sloan said, rubbing his aching gut.

"Yeah, maybe, but I'd rather be working the Terrell homicide."

"That wasn't his call to make," Sloan said.

"Give the guy a break, he's doing the job."

"You think so?" Molina asked.

"I do."

"Well, he hasn't got my vote yet."

Fred Browning sat in a back booth of his favorite Albuquerque sports bar staring at his double whiskey. Televisions positioned throughout the dimly lit room, all turned to the same station, showed halftime highlights of a West Coast college basketball game while a color commentator blithered. Buff-looking college-age waitresses, dressed in skimpy workout shorts and tank tops, cruised through the crowd taking drink and food orders, with easy smiles and sassy prattle designed to loosen wallets for big tips.

Browning had planned to get slam-dunk drunk, but instead he'd been sipping the same whiskey for almost an hour, trying to sort out why he'd been laid off. A good dozen patrons waited at the front of the room to be seated, and his waitress looked longingly at the four-person booth he occupied as she passed by.

He ordered another double and some food, dropped a fifty on her tray when she brought it, and told her to keep the change. Placated and pleased, she walked away, toned buns twitching under her tight-fitting nylon shorts.

Browning's day had turned crappy real fast when the plant manager had dumped him from his job without anything more than bullshit explanation.

The promise of a nice severance package and a position with a Silicon Valley company hadn't done much to lift his spirits.

With two grown children and aging parents living in Albuquerque, Fred had no desire to leave New Mexico to move to a place that sucked big time-where a one-bedroom apartment cost over a thousand a month in rent and everybody worth less than ten million was considered poor.

He'd taken the severance pay and turned down the job.

He looked up from his drink and overcooked hamburger and saw Tim Ingram standing at his table.

"Hey, buddy, I've been looking for you," Ingram said.

"I heard what happened."

"Bad news travels fast," Fred said.

"Tell me what happened. I'd damn well like to know. Hell, I was doing the job. They had no cause to can me."

"Hell, no, they didn't," Ingram said, easing himself into the booth.

"Look, don't take it personally. This is the new world order. All it takes is a little downward blip in the market, a little dip in projected profits, and corporate America decides somebody has to go, loyalty be damned. You don't think management is going to cut back on their stock options just to keep regular guys like you and me working, do you?"

"That makes me feel a whole lot better about myself," Fred said sarcastically.

"I know it doesn't," Tim said, reaching out to snare a trench fry off Browning's plate.

"Did they give you any idea why you were downsized?"

"Just the usual bullshit about corporate restructuring."

"Why do you think it happened?" Ingram asked.

"About six months ago I started feeling out of the loop. We opened a new R-and-D production unit and a bunch of new programmers and technicians were shipped in from out-of-state to work on it. Me and my people were given no information, and told only to provide tight physical security for the unit."

"Of course, you challenged the decision."

"Big time. All it got me was a pat on the back for being dedicated to my job and an order to back off."

"What do you think is going on?"

Browning shook his head.

"I haven't a clue, but the visitors to the unit look like heavy hitters from back east."

"Heavy hitters?"

"Yeah, high-ranking government officials, research scientists-people like that. Best I can figure is they're designing and producing some sort of stealth chip."

Ingram laughed.

"A stealth chip. That's funny. What the hell is a stealth chip?"

"I'm guessing it's to instantly track hackers who break into networks and Web sites."

"How did you come up with that idea?"

"From snatches of coffee-room chatter I've overheard."

"Well, come to think of it, it makes a lot of sense."

Browning shrugged.

"Like I said, I'm guessing."

Conversation stopped while the waitress took Ingram's drink order.

"So what are you going to do next?" Ingram asked when she walked away.

"Hell if I know."

"Nothing on the horizon?"

"Yeah, a job in California was offered, but I turned it down. I got family here, a house, all my relatives, and this is where I want to stay."

"Was it a good job?" Ingram asked.

Browning nodded.

"Commensurate to my old job with a nice salary boost and all relocation costs paid."

Ingram smiled kindly.

"I know you're helping your kids with their monthly mortgages and covering a big chunk of your parents' expenses. Plus, you've got your own bills. That severance package and your police pension isn't gonna take you very far."

"Don't I know it."

"Here's an idea: Take the California job for six or eight months and then come back as my replacement."

"You're planning to leave?"

"Always have been. I've got a lock on a sweet job back east. Big corner office, leggy personal secretary, lots of perks. But I want to finish up here before I make the move. And I get to pick who steps into my shoes.

Why shouldn't it be you? In fact, I was planning to talk to you about it in a couple of months to see if you'd be interested."

Browning's expression brightened.

"I could handle Silicon Valley for a while if I knew I was coming back."

"Sure you could," Ingram said.

"And it would be a hell of a lot easier for me to justify your appointment if you're not coming to the job from the unemployment line."

Browning leaned back, let out a sigh of relief, and smiled.

"This could work.

You're one hell of a good friend."

"Hey, you're the one who'll be doing me a favor," Ingram said, reaching for another french fry.

"Is it a deal?"

"My boss left the job offer on the table. I'll call him in the morning and say I've changed my mind."

The waitress set Ingram's drink on the table. He raised it and watched Browning do the same.

"Great. We've got the weekend coming up, amigo. How about heading down to the lake for a day of fishing?"

"Sounds good to me."

Browning started eating his hamburger and talking about some new lures he'd bought. Ingram kept the chatter going with smiles and nods.

Browning didn't have a handle on the project, of that Ingram was certain, but his stealth-chip idea wasn't completely off the mark either. If Fred had managed to ferret out any specific information, he wouldn't have survived the night. As it was, the poor son of a bitch was in for a big surprise down the road when he realized he'd been left stranded in Silicon Valley.

Browning finished his burger and drink, and Ingram walked him to the parking lot. He left with Fred's effusive thanks ringing in his ears, thinking the man didn't know how lucky he really was.

Charlie Perry handed Ambassador Terrell the manila envelope and waited in the doorway to the presidential suite.

"Consider your answer very carefully, Agent Perry," Terrell said.

"Did you open it and read the contents?"

"I did not, sir."

"Very well. Come in. I want to be brought up to date."

Perry sat in an easy chair and watched as Terrell slipped the manila envelope into a briefcase and locked it.

Terrell turned and said, "You may begin."

"Kerney has shut his investigation down," Perry said.

"You're absolutely sure?" Terrell asked before Perry could continue.

"Positive. He gave his violent-crimes supervisor the order earlier this evening after our report crossed his desk."

"At least that went as expected," Terrell said as he sat across from Perry.

"Terjo is in Mexico. Both Fred Browning and Randall Stewart have been contained and counseled, so to speak."

"Give me specifics," Terrell said.

Perry summarized the ploy Special Agent Ingram had used on Browning, and the gist of his interrogation earlier in the day with Stewart.

"It should suffice," he added.

"I hope so," Terrell replied.

"There's no reason to take it any further, for now."

"Agreed. And Father Mitchell's briefcase?"

"It hasn't surfaced."

"You'd better find it."

Perry wanted to point out that none of this would have been necessary if Terrell hadn't downloaded and kept military and government secrets on his personal computer at his Washington home, and used a dip-shit stupid password that even his dead cunt wife was able to break on her last visit back east.

"We're looking," he said.

"That's not good enough."

"We'll find it."

"See that you do. That's all, Agent Perry."

Perry walked down the hotel corridor to the elevators. Ever since the assignment landed in his lap, he'd been trying to figure out what kind of Beltway clout Hamilton Lowell Terrell had that kept him out of jail, protected him from exposure, and sanctioned the killing of two civilians. For the same degree of stupidity in similar situations a Chinese-American scientist from Los Alamos had been kept in solitary confinement for almost a whole year and a former CIA director had been forced to endure public censure by members of Congress.

The only solace in the whole mess was that the Bureau hadn't been asked to do any of the actual killing. At least, not yet.

The elevator door opened and Perry stepped inside the cage, shaking his head at the thought that whatever Terrell had going for him, it was some powerful political voodoo.

Hamilton Lowell Terrell dialed the phone and Applewhite answered on the first ring.

"Was our friend able to return to Mexico as he had hoped?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Applewhite said.

"His travel plans were interrupted."

"That's unfortunate. Perhaps new arrangements can be made."

"They already have been."