Executive Actions (21 page)

It would be another day before the news of Back Bay killing made the City & Region section of
The Boston Globe
or
The Boston Herald
. That’s when Haywood Marcus would really began to worry.

The man logged onto his computer. He’d been working harder in the last two months than he had in years. Business was good. His various bank accounts, divvied up in four countries, had swollen by millions. And now there was another message embedded in some e-Bay ads for first edition Frederick Forysthe novels.

He’d have to think about this offer and how he wanted to handle it.

As the antiques dealer he used hair dye, glasses, clothing, and dialect to effectively change his identity. As the Connecticut commuter, theatrical pigmentation makeup and appropriate business attire did the trick. And as the old lawyer casting for steelhead, the wrinkling cream proved positively amazing. It slowed the blood flow to his face, helping his facial muscles sag. He added decades to his features. His character came together with more hair dye, a loose fitting wardrobe, and great acting.

Every disguise began organically. He created full biographies for his roles, understanding who they were, where they grew up and where they live and work. He gave them personal idiosyncrasies, particular tastes in food, and how they satisfied themselves sexually. Some of his characters were good family men, one was gay. He could pass as an Arab, however he admitted to himself that he had difficulty perfecting a credible Asian identity. Curiously, he did play a woman once with deadly success. His victim’s last realization was how wrong he’d been about the woman he took to a hotel room.

He enjoyed everything about his job; so much more than his teachers could have imagined. Amazing, too, that it had been his goal since losing a leading role in his high school play. Of course, he had directed the very real death scene of his old drama teacher and by last count, forty-three other men and women since.

Forty-four would be a Boston lawyer.
He’d have to give some real consideration to how he’d do it.

“C
hief, Anne Fornado wants to see you at the St. Charles right away.”

“Did she say why?”

“Thought you be interested in something.”

Chief Carl Marelli was hot and annoyed. This mid-summer Hudson Valley humidity was brutal. Not as bad as what Manhattan and DC were getting. Still they sure could use a little break. As a matter of fact, so could his investigation. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, drove his squad car up Warren Street but didn’t even bother with the AC for the short drive.

The reporters were all gone. No more satellite vans; no more visits from first tier and wannabe anchors. The story started in Hudson and that’s where the trail also got cold.

Marelli and Bessolo talked every day or so. If the FBI had anything in Washington, they weren’t telling the Hudson police. And Marelli had nothing that would merit calling the bureau back.

The last field agent left a week earlier. And he was having more luck scoring antiques on Warren Street than any more leads around town.

“So whatcha got, Anne?” Marelli asked as soon as he pushed open the side door.

“Come on back,” the hotel clerk said. She’d been two years behind Marelli at Hudson High and still tried to catch his eye.

Anne Fornado opened the door to her office. Thankfully the air conditioning was blasting refreshingly cool air.

“Remember a few days after the shooting you came by to ask about McAlister’s reservation? You really were disappointed with what I gave you.”

“Yeah, nothing,” he remembered.

“But Carl, there was something. I just hadn’t found it yet.”

“Go on,” the Police Chief implored, now thoroughly engrossed.

“I needed to dig a little deeper. And there it was.”

“There was what?”

“In the record. The reservation, the booking
and
the notations. Here.”

Marelli was feeling more comfortable and it wasn’t the air conditioning. He circled around Anne’s computer screen. She smelled nice. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that in years.

“Let’s go to McAlister’s reservation on the 13
th
. The night he called it in.” She typed the words “McAlister” and “check-in” and pressed enter. A two-page list of hotel guests named McAlister came up. She moved her mouse down to “Sidney McAlister,” highlighted the item and hit enter again with her right pinky.

The full registration immediately appeared showing McAlister’s name and his credit card number, since found by the FBI to be a pre-paid Visa credit card covered by cash. A few lines down was the hotel short hand: Ckn tm, rmchrg, rm#.

“What am I looking for?” Marelli asked. Fornado helped him by moving the cursor to the last line and highlighting “Room #207.”

Marelli straightened up but never took his eyes off the screen. Anne looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Interesting.”

“207, on the side, second floor,” she said unnecessarily.

“207? But he was checked into 301.”

“Not right away. Someone else was in 301. And look at this.”

Anne scrolled down to a further notation on McAlister’s record. “Request frt rm, 3
rd
, 301, when avail.”

“That was added by Sam Martell, who was on the night desk on the 15
th
. McAlister must have called it in. See, it’s all right here.”

Marelli read it all.

“I talked to Sam. He remembers it. McAlister even offered to buy him a drink, which Sam turned down.”

“And when did the room open up?”

“Three days later. The 18
th
. That’s when McAlister got his room.”

“And if the guy in 301 didn’t leave, then McAlister would have been up shit creek.”

“Guess so. But the odd thing is,” she said as she typed in another few words, “the guest in 301 left early. He wasn’t supposed to leave until June 25
th
.”

“The FBI never ran any of this down?”

“Not a bit. I wouldn’t have either, but I wanted to help you.” She flashed a warm smile. “Somehow.”

“Annie, I don’t know what it means, but the coincidence is overwhelming. Do you have a name to go with the room?”

“Right here,” she proudly volunteered. “I’ve got everything printed out for you.”

Anne handed him a file with all of the pages. “Thank you, Anne. Thanks a lot,” he said on the run. When he got back to his desk he was going to track down this man who had 301 and why he left. He had a phone number in Connecticut and a name. Dolan.

Roarke made the noon shuttle out of Logan. Getting through security with his gun was always a potential problem. He preferred to take care of these “unpleasantries,” as he called them, away from the crowds. Arriving at the terminal he identified himself to a uniformed guard who escorted him to a holding room. There he voluntarily turned over his Sig while the federal security guards checked and rechecked his Secret Service credentials.

Everyone on the president’s payroll remembered the 2002 case involving an armed Secret Service agent who was removed from a Maryland to Texas American Airlines flight. The pilot was concerned that the man posed a potential security risk, and he acted accordingly. In light of that, Roarke believed that rushing these people was not a good idea. The airport guards had been federalized for years, which simply meant they could fire first and ask questions later. And the captain of an airplane, like the captain of a ship, has complete responsibility for the safety of his passengers. According to security specialists with the Airline Pilots Association, when dealing with a perceived threat, the pilot has the authority to return a plane to the gate and have passengers removed.

Roarke preferred anonymity in public. He provided the security team with a number to call at the White House to confirm his credentials. While they were waiting for a response Roarke’s cell phone rang.

“Roarke here,” he answered. The news was not good and he automatically turned his back on the guards. A few moments later they heard his side of a testy conversation. “A heart attack? When? He didn’t get the message?”

They instantly knew he was real. The fact was confirmed by the fax coming in now. The senior of the two guards took it out of the machine, scanned it and gave the other a thumbs up just as Roarke sharply stated, “Have that trooper seal off the scene immediately. And, Shannon, get a team out there. Find out who can do a complete toxicology workup before some local funeral director shoots him full of anything. I’ll be back in town by ten.”

Roarke pocketed his phone. “Is everything okay?” he asked the guards.

“Is it okay with you, sir?”

“Not in the least.”

They returned his gun and identification and escorted Roarke to the gate. The lead guard whispered something to the ticket agent. She flagged him on the plane with a polite wave of her hand.

The one thing Roarke did request was the privilege of being seated first. He liked to study everyone who boarded. But today he was tired from his vigil the night before. The flight was delayed for thirty-five minutes because of air traffic patterns. Roarke used the time to rest.

When he opened his eyes again he was on the ground in Washington. The landing jolted him awake. Once permitted to use the cell phone, he dialed his friend at the FBI. But Davis had done him one better. He was waiting at the gate for Roarke.

“Well, this is service,” he said when he saw the FBI man. Davis, a blond version of Roarke, was rock solid. He projected a
don’t mess with me
attitude in his 6’2” frame. He looked tough, but sophisticated in his navy blue suit and designer sunglasses. Shannon Davis had served with Roarke in the Army Special Forces. They remained close friends and they helped each other in ways well beyond what the rules allowed.

“I figured you deserved a little TLC.”

“And I get you. Where did I go wrong?”

Roarke took Shannon’s right hand when they met and wrestled his neck with his left. The two friends exchanged small talk until they got in the FBI Towncar. The bureau driver had absolutely no problem keeping it waiting at the curb.

“Okay, here’s what I can tell you,” Davis began. “It does look like a heart attack.” Roarke was about to jump in, but Davis continued, “I know. I know. And we’ll get a full autopsy. But I’m telling you he had all the signs of a heart attack.”

“What about where he collapsed.”

“Sealed off like you asked. Jesus, Scott, the man was in his late seventies and he was out there alone in the woods. People do die of heart attacks.”

“Yeah, but one day he’s a critical link for me and the next day he’s dead.”

“A link to what, Scott? What are you into?”

“I can’t explain now.”

Davis paused. “You better be careful, buddy. You work for a high profile guy.”

Roarke nodded.
The highest. But for how long?

They drove for another twelve minutes talking baseball to pass the time. Once inside the FBI building, they went up to Shannon Davis’ office.

Roarke asked him to get the Idaho State Trooper on the line. While the FBI man placed the call, Roarke phoned the White House. “Louise, I need to see the man today,” he said. Morgan Taylor’s secretary put him on the calendar for 5:50. “Ten minutes, Scott. No more. He’s scheduled for a dinner at six.”

Davis had his man on the phone by the time Roarke was finished talking to the president’s secretary. “His name is Duke Hormel. He’s cooperative,” he explained with his hand over the mouthpiece. “So for god’s sake, don’t piss him off.”

Roarke flashed Davis the finger and pleasantly said, “Hello officer Hormel, this is Scott Roarke. I’m with the Secret Service. Thanks for your willingness to assist.” He smiled to Davis as if to say, “Aren’t I being good?”

“Hello,” was all he got back from the Idaho trooper.

“Listen, I know you’ve gone over this before, but can you run through it again for me. Please,” he added for Shannon’s benefit.

“Secret Service? What’s this got to do with…”

“The vice president might be visiting the area. It’s routine, officer. But keep that to yourself, if you will.”

“Sure. Okay. Well, what happened is that we received a 911 call from a woman who said her husband hadn’t returned for dinner after a day fishing up river. It’s not the best country to be out in after dark, so we take these things pretty seriously.”

“I understand.”

“We get these calls fairly regularly and usually the person in question turns up a bit drunk. Too many beers.”

“This was different?” Roarke asked.

“Actually not, pretty routine. We got the general idea from his wife where Nunes was supposed to be and about 10
P.M.
on the 20
th
we found him. He’d been dead about nine or ten hours. A heart attack. I guess it turned out to be a bad fishing day for him. Not even a bite on his line.”

“Any visible signs of distress on the body?”

“No, the coroner pretty quickly determined it was a heart attack.”

Roarke felt some attitude back, but he had to ask the next question. “Any signs of a puncture wound. Even a needle to his heart or under his armpit?”

Roarke could feel the officer getting mad. He heard a deep sigh over the phone.

“It was a heart attack.”

“Look, Trooper Hormel, I didn’t say it wasn’t a heart attack. But heart attacks can be induced. And as I explained, it’s my business to make sure your neck of the woods is safe for the VP.”

The Idaho officer lowered his voice. “Sir, we had the place cordoned off like Agent Davis requested. Now the body’s being held at St. Luke’s Wood River Medical Center.”

“Did his wife say Nunes had any history of heart problems?”

“No, I asked. Aside from asthma he was in pretty good health. No heart problems.”

“Come on, Trooper. No suspicions? Isn’t there anything that doesn’t strike you as right?” Roarke demanded. He was showing his anger. After all it took almost five days before the troopers notified the FBI that the heart attack victim was the man Roarke sought.

This time the young trooper didn’t jump right in. He weighed his answer for a few moments, then started, “Mr. Roarke, I’m usually running down fishermen who were supposed to catch and release, but didn’t. I write up a lot of drivers who smash into a deer and I’m always giving some teenage campers a good warning after finding them in possession of some grass. We have wolves, coyotes, and even a few bears to scare away from camp sites. I don’t have much to do with criminals. This is way over my head.”

“Hello, Mr. President.”

Morgan Taylor nearly spit out his sixth cup of coffee of the day. Roarke never referred to him as “President.” Ever. Usually “boss,” but never “Mr. President.” “Sorry, but such protocol, I’m just not used to it, Scott. Glad to see you.”

The president closed the door to the Oval Office and invited Roarke in. “I understand that you’ve been a busy, busy boy.”

“Oh?”

“Your stroll through the Boston Esplanade last evening. That was your handiwork?”

“Yes sir.”

Mulligan had obviously briefed the president in person. Nothing more needed to be said about it directly. Nothing more would ever be said.

“Louise told me you need to get to a dinner, so I’ll get right to it.”

The two men remained standing. The president stood behind the Jefferson chair.

“You sent me up to Lodge’s hometown to ask a few simple questions. Quietly. I don’t think it’s quiet any more. I’m getting a really bad feeling.”

“Which is?”

“Well, I don’t have enough to make any kind of professional assessment yet, but I want you to put in a good word for me with Mulligan. I need to talk to one of his people. Maybe that will give me something concrete.” He clutched the photograph, not certain if he should show it to the president yet.

“Okay, but you could have called that in. There’s something else. What is it?”

“I’ll share what my gut tells me.”

“Please do.”

“I think you’re being fucked over.”