Fatal Decree (23 page)

Sunday was one of those days when you accomplish nothing and end up tired in the process. I was looking forward to the downtime. One of the things I enjoyed about my island was the opportunity to hide out and spend the day alone with a book. If I didn’t answer the phone, no one was offended. They’d leave a message on the answering machine and get on with their day. The islanders understood the need for quiet time. As it turned out, I was tired by the time I went to bed that night, but it wasn’t from reading a book. The day got a bit complicated as it wore on.

I’d called Jock after I’d gotten home the afternoon before and told him what J.D. had said. He thanked me, but said he couldn’t talk about the laptop over the phone. He would fill me in when he got back to the key.

I pulled Christine Kling’s latest novel from the stack of books I had set aside to read. Her character, Seychelle Sullivan, was back on her tugboat, solving another mystery. I’d heard Ms. Kling had suspended the series and was writing something else. I hoped she’d get back to Seychelle.

The outdoor temperature had moved into the seventies. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and a small breeze blew out of the south. I sat on the patio with my book until my stomach began to rumble with hunger. Some warmed-over pizza and a diet cola took care of that.

I knew J.D. would be working, trying to tie all the ends together, figure out who was trying to kill her, and why. I had thought about calling her for lunch, but finally discarded the notion. She needed some time to work and get her thoughts together. I wasn’t going to be the instrument of her decision to stay on the island. That was a decision she had to make alone, to come to terms with a different existence than she’d known in Miami. If she couldn’t make the transition, she’d be better off back in South Florida.
I would be worse off, but that should not be part of her equation. She had to find her own happiness, and if that cut me out, so be it.

My phone rang a couple of times, but I didn’t answer. I listened to the messages left on the machine. If the calls had been important, I’d have called back immediately. Neither of them was about anything that couldn’t wait until the next day. Late in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning its daily descent into the Gulf, I heard the front door open and turned to see Jock walk in. He looked tired, stressed. I knew him better than any other person on the planet and I sensed that things hadn’t gone well in D.C.

“Hi, podna,” he said. “Taking a day off?”

“Yeah. Looks like you need one. Want to talk?”

He put his duffel down, went to the kitchen, and rummaged around in the refrigerator. He came out onto the patio with a cold O’Doul’s and took the empty chair. “We lost another agent last week. An old friend of mine.”

“Where?”

“Columbia. He was deep undercover and somebody took him out.”

“Are you sure somebody figured out who he was?”

“Yeah. They carved ‘CIA’ in his chest.”

“You’re not CIA.”

“No. But those people figure all American agents are CIA.”

“I’m sorry, Jock.”

“It’s an occupational hazard. But we think somebody inside our agency had something to do with this one and the two guys who were taken out several months ago.”

“The ones Gene Alexander was involved with.”

“Yeah. This one, too.”

“Gene was working on your friend’s murder?”

“The director called him the first of this week to get him involved. He’d hit an absolute dead end on the first two murders and they called off the investigation. He said he thought Gene would be better off working than moping around thinking about Nell.”

“And you think Gene’s murder is connected to the investigation?”

“Looks like it.”

“What was the deal with the laptop?”

“Gene was using the laptop on his end of the investigation. He could get into almost any database the agency has. He was trolling, trying to find an opening, somebody who had access who shouldn’t have, or somebody communicating with the bad guys in some way.”

“You think somebody killed Gene to get the laptop?”

“No. We think Gene was taken out by whoever is screwing with us. My guess is that the laptop was just there and the killer figured it might have information his bosses could use.”

“Sounds like that laptop would have a lot of information in it.”

“Yeah, but I doubt anybody would be able to crack the encryption. There are layers built in that would be almost impossible to break. But, the very fact that the computer was the only thing taken makes it more likely that this was a professional hit.”

“Anything else point to that conclusion?”

“Gene wasn’t a trained field agent. He was an analyst. Spent his whole life with computers, looking at intel, trying to stay a step or two ahead of the bad guys. Still, he would have been aware of his surroundings. I think it would have been very difficult for somebody who didn’t know what they were doing to be able to slip up on him.”

“Maybe Gene was asleep. We’ll never know.” I said.

“You’re probably right.”

“I talked with J.D. She wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“Call her. We can order in pizza.”

“I had pizza for lunch.”

“Won’t kill you to eat it again.”

J.D. came through the front door a couple of hours later. “I found Jeff this afternoon,” she said.

“Hello to you, too, Detective,” I said.

She laughed. “Sorry. This may be the break we need. I guess I’m kind of pumped.”

“Happy to be back at work?” I asked.

“Bet your—well, you know what. That thing you sit on. Yes.”

“Tell us about Jeff,” I said.

“A man named Jeff Worthington was an inmate at Glades until a few months ago. He was doing fifteen years for manslaughter. Killed a bouncer at a club in Tampa. He did every day of the fifteen, and was released on June first. Nobody’s heard from him since. He’s completely off the grid.”

“Why do you think he’s the one?” I asked. “If he’s been in prison for fifteen years, he couldn’t have had anything to do with the whale tail killings twelve years ago.”

“That’s true, but he’s the only prisoner down there named Jeff who’s been released within the past year. At least the only one not accounted for. A couple of others are on parole, but they’re nowhere near Sarasota and they’re checking in with their parole officers regularly. And, this Jeff shared a cell with Pete Qualman for a couple of years.”

“Bingo,” said Jock.

“I still don’t see the connection to the whale tail murders,” I said.

J.D. smiled at me like she might if I were a child with little understanding of the world. “I don’t either, sweetie, but we’re closer than we were before you came up with Jeff’s name.”

“I like it when you call me ‘sweetie,’” I said. “What now?”

I got the same look again. “More cross-referencing,” she said. “I called Steve Carey, and he said he’d come in tomorrow and take over that job.”

“So you think Jeff is in Sarasota,” said Jock.

“All I’ve got to go on is what that poor girl down in Clewiston had to say.”

“Anything new on Gene’s case?” Jock asked.

“Not really. I’ve been through all the evidence the forensic guys turned up, but there wasn’t much. Whoever the killer was, he was careful. Did you get anything in Washington?”

“Yes. But we’ve got a problem.”

“The missing laptop?” she asked.

“That’s part of it.”

“What else?”

“Most of what I know is a national security problem that only the president, the director of my agency, and I know about. I can’t share it.”

“President of what?” she asked.

“The United States.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you telling me?” she asked.

“Nothing. That’s the problem. I need to know what you know, but I can’t tell you what I know.”

“What are you planning to do with my information?”

“I’m hoping it’ll get me closer to the killer. We’re pretty sure Gene’s murder is connected to something we’re working on.”

“And if you find the killer before I do, what then?” asked J.D.

“That’s some of the stuff I can’t tell you.”

“Or won’t.”

“Gets us to the same place either way.”

“You tell your president that information sharing is a two-way street.”

“Not this time, J.D. I want to cooperate with you because we’re friends, and you’re a hell of a detective, but I can’t. Not on this one. Not without your promise that the information I give you will go no further. Not even to Bill Lester. I’ve got the director’s authorization to share my information with you, but only with the stipulation that it stays with you.”

“Jock,” she said, “I can’t and won’t work outside the department. If the chief tells me I can keep some aspects of this investigation secret, I’ll do it. But not otherwise. And he’s not going to agree to that. He has to answer to the town manager and, eventually, the state attorney and the press.”

Jock shrugged, as if dismissing the subject. “It sounds like you don’t have a whole lot to go on, anyway,” he said.

“I don’t. Not right now. But I will know more. And soon. I’m good at what I do.”

“I know that and I need you. I’ll make a call. In about half an hour, Chief Lester will give you the go-ahead.” He grinned. “I look forward to working with you, Detective.”

She laughed, derisively. “Right,” she said. “Matt, did you order the pizza?”

I hadn’t, but I picked up the phone and called Oma’s.

Chief Bill Lester lived in the village a couple of blocks from my cottage. He arrived at the same time as the pizza delivery guy. He was red in the face, agitated, but he held his tongue until the pizza dude left. “Goddamnit it, Jock, do you know who I just got off the phone with?”

Jock grinned. “Yes.”

“The goddamned president of the United States,” said Lester, his voice loud.

“Y’all have a nice chat?” Jock asked, still grinning.

“If you call a presidential request to turn my department over to you a nice chat.”

“Now, Bill,” Jock said. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Almost.” Lester was calming down. “But the goddamned president of the United States? He said he was calling on your behalf, Jock. Can you believe that shit, Matt?”

“Sure can,” I said.

J.D. sat, rooted in her chair, stunned by the chief’s outburst.

Lester shook his head, turned to J.D. “He was calling about you, Detective.”

“Me?” she said.

Bill nodded. “He suggested I give you the authority to work with these
two jacklegs and keep it all to yourself. Take me and the whole goddamned law enforcement community out of the loop.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I guess you told him you run this department,” she said.

“Sure,” Bill said, sarcastically. “And I didn’t mention that I report to the town manager who reports to the town commission, all seven of whom are politicians. Or that I know that the U.S. Attorney and the governor, who, by the way, are members of the same party as the president, are already involved in this mess. I told him to go piss up a rope.”

“What did you really say?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Yes, sir,’” said Bill. “I said that a number of times. And then I called the town manager and told him what I planned to do and who had suggested it.”

“And what do you plan to do?” I asked.

“Exactly what the goddamned president of the United States asked me to do. It’s your show, Jock, and J.D is yours for the duration.”

“Bill,” I said, “I’m not sure Gene Alexander’s murder is connected to the others.”

“I’m not either. The president is only interested in the Alexander case, so J.D., you work them all and handle the others the same way we always do. If they turn out to be tied together, we’ll talk about it and decide how to go from there.”

“Just how pissed are you, Bill?” Jock asked.

“Pretty pissed. I guess a couple slices of Oma’s best would probably take the edge off.”

“No problem,” I said.

“You got any beer?” asked the chief.

“No problem,” I said.

When the pizza and the beer and the chief were gone, Jock asked if we were up to hearing what he’d learned in Washington.

“I don’t remember the president saying that Matt could hear any of this,” said J.D., smiling.

“I have full discretion to tell Matt anything. Besides, he knows if he ever divulges anything, I’ll kill him.”

Jock was smiling as he said that, but I’m not at all sure there wasn’t some sort of threat in his words. It didn’t matter. I was never going to test it.

“Back in April,” Jock said, “we lost two agents in Columbia. They had successfully infiltrated the guerrilla group known as FARC and were giving us a wealth of intelligence. We’d been able to take down some of their leaders and were closing in on the top dog.”

“What happened?” asked J.D.

“We don’t know for sure. I knew we’d lost some agents, but until yesterday I didn’t know the particulars. Their bodies were dumped in front of our embassy in Bogotá. They had been tortured and then hanged with something very thin, like piano wire. It causes a painful death by choking.”

“Just like Hitler,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Jock. “Just like Hitler did to the people involved in the July twentieth plot to kill him.”

“Do you know how the guerrillas figured out who your agents were?” asked J.D.

“That’s the nub of the problem,” said Jock. “We think there’s a leak in our system. Somebody is feeding the bad guys information. That’s what
Gene Alexander was working on. Our director brought him into the investigation. Actually, the whole thing was held so closely that only the director and Gene were involved.”

“Why Gene?” asked J.D.

“He was retired, out of it,” said Jock. “The leaks started after he’d left the agency, so he was above suspicion. His analytical skills were about the best our agency had ever seen, so he was the logical person to bring into the loop.”

“Did he find anything?” asked J.D.

“No, and we didn’t lose any more agents. They thought the leaks had stopped. They figured that the leaker, whoever he was, had either quit leaking or was out of the agency. Maybe he’d had pressure put on him specifically by the FARC, or he had some philosophical identity with them. Whatever, the director gave up after a couple of months. But before he did, he had Gene set some electronic traps in the agency’s computer system. If the guy showed up again, they’d get him. At least that was the plan.”