Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (10 page)

He turned off his computer and left his office. The smell of coffee had grown stronger, but he wouldn’t be having any today. Someone else would have to drink his share of that swill. He had a mission to complete.

Paige returned to his apartment, picked up his camera, and left. He could have saved himself a trip by using the camera in his cell phone, but the one he had at home had much higher resolution.

On the way to the parking garage he wondered why Wellington had lied to him about the fingerprints and the other items of evidence. What was he up to? Who else was involved? Who was pulling Wellington’s strings for this assignment? Were those two guys he met in the parking lot sent by Wellington? If not, who sent them? Were they sent just to talk to him, or to kill him? Would he be safe now that he had decided to drop the Raul Rodriguez investigation?

He found Heverly’s house easily. Residential neighborhood. Close to a main highway. No one-way streets to complicate things. Several houses sprouted hedges in front. He could park in front of them to wait for the children to come home. If school let out between two-thirty and three, they would probably arrive home between two forty and three twenty.

At two-thirty he did a practice drive-by to get a feel for the neighborhood and to check out potential parking places that would not be too obvious. He pulled over and parked on the other side of the street about a hundred feet from the house, far enough away to not be too obvious but close enough to see what was going on. As he rolled down the window so that he could take clear photos, the heat of the sizzling Miami afternoon invaded his air-conditioned car. The smell of freshly cut grass filled his nostrils. It reminded him of his youth, when he used to cut his father’s grass and earn some extra money cutting neighbors’ grass. Now that he lived in a condo, he didn’t have to do that anymore. The condo association had a staff of Haitians to do that work.

His mouth was getting dry. He popped in some gum and wiped the salty sweat from his forehead with his fingertips. It wouldn’t be long now.

A block away, a group of children with backpacks walked in the direction of Heverly’s house. At this distance he couldn’t identify any as the kids from the
Facebook
photos.

The group of kids diminished as they peeled off to go to their respective homes. By the time they approached the Heverly house, just five of them remained in the pack.

Paige zoomed in and started snapping photos. Two of the kids, a boy and a girl, headed toward the side door, while the remaining three kids continued walking. He got the photos he wanted.

He started the car. A woman opened the side door as he passed by the house. He took one quick photo of the three of them.

James Young continued to go to the office, but there wasn’t much work for him or anyone else to do. No computers. No files. His colleagues had empathized with him after seeing his bloody face on the front page of the
Miami Herald
, but now they kept their distance. The Department of Homeland Security had called him a terrorist.

Although his court date was looming on the horizon, his main concern at the moment was keeping his job. The company’s customers kept calling to cancel their orders. With no computers, the company couldn’t serve them. His colleagues spent most of their time taking cancellation calls. Every time a phone rang was like another nail in the coffin of the company. It would soon be out of business if they couldn’t get their computers back.

He tried not to make eye contact. He tried not to talk to them. They stopped initiating conversations with him.

He looked at his watch. Quitting time. He glanced at Yanira Flores on the way out. Her broken nose had been reset. One of her eyes was still puffy from the elbow slam the DHS agent had given her.

On the drive home he pulled up to the ATM at his bank to make a cash withdrawal. He was declined. Twice. The bank was closed, but the drive-in teller windows were still open. He drove up to one of them.

“Good evening. How may I assist you?”

“I just tried to make a cash withdrawal on your ATM but was declined.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Give me your debit card and a photo ID. How much would you like?”

“Two hundred dollars, please.”

“Just one moment.” She took the debit card and ID and started typing into her computer. A few seconds later she stopped.

“I’m sorry, sir. Your accounts have been frozen.”

“What!? Why are they frozen?”

“I don’t know, sir. All it says is that the Department of Homeland Security froze them this morning.”

“What?” He shouted, gripping the car door to lean toward her. “How will I buy groceries?”

The teller stepped back from the drive-in window, startled by his sudden outburst.

He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them.

“Mr. Young, the bank is closed now. You’ll have to come in tomorrow when the bank is open to straighten it out. I’m sorry, sir.”

He grunted, but remained polite. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t make a withdrawal. “Thank you.” He put his car in gear and left.

His wife had asked him to pick up a few things at the grocery store on the way home. He didn’t need cash to do that. He could use his credit cards.

He pointed his car in the direction of the store, but couldn’t concentrate on his driving. Every day seemed to add more problems to his already complicated life, mostly because of the inadvertent brush his hand had made to that TSA agent’s face at the airport.

He arrived at the grocery store a few minutes later. He grabbed the items for his wife, then walked to the checkout. The cashier rang up the items and he slid his credit card through the card reader.

“I’m sorry, sir, the machine declined your card. Can you try another card?”

How was that possible? He made it a point to always pay his cards on time. He even paid a little more than the amount he owed so he could start the next billing cycle with a credit balance.

He tried another card. Declined. Then another card. Also declined. He only carried three credit cards with him. That had always been more than enough.

“I’m sorry, sir. I won’t be able to finish processing your transaction.”

“I’m sorry.” He started picking up the items and placing them in his cart.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“I’m going to put them back on the shelves. You shouldn’t have to do that. It’s my fault.”

“No, sir. You don’t have to do that. It’s store policy that one of our employees has to return items to the shelves.”

“OK. I’m sorry for any trouble.”

“That’s all right, sir. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you.”

He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He avoided eye contact with the other customers.

Paige opened the condo door and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter. He plopped down on the couch and let out a sigh. His MBA students were generally smarter, more mature and motivated than his undergraduate students, but most of them didn’t want to be in his class. They were mostly management or marketing majors and took his accounting class because it was a requirement for the degree. He had to try to teach them as well as entertain them to keep their interest.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The growling in his stomach told him to eat something, so he searched through the fridge and pulled out a Diet Pepsi and the ingredients for a ham and cheese sandwich. He grabbed the large bag of chips sitting on the counter and took everything to the kitchen table. He constructed and slowly devoured the sandwich and chips, then booted up his laptop and finished off the Diet Pepsi.

At his desk he put on latex gloves, opened a new packet of glossy photo paper, and printed the two best photos he had taken that afternoon. He set them aside. Next, he printed twelve copies of all the photos he took the night Heverly and the other guy accosted him in the university parking lot – their faces and guns, and the van’s license plate – along with copies of the notes.

He reached over and took the packet of large envelopes he’d bought at Walgreen’s on the way home. He inserted a complete set of photos, including the photos of Heverly’s family into one envelope. He put a set of the parking lot photos, along with the photos of the guns and the copies of the notes into 11 other envelopes.

He then typed a note to George Heverly and a second note to the recipients of the 11 other envelopes. The note to Heverly said:

Mr. Heverly:

We know you assaulted Professor Paige and threatened his life and that of his girlfriend. If any harm comes to either of them, we will kill you. Neither you nor your family will live. We will also distribute copies of these photos and notes to the media and various government agencies so that your accomplices will be brought to justice. Back off or face the consequences.

He couldn’t back up his threat, of course. He knew he was acting alone but Heverly didn’t know that.

He printed his message and crammed it into one of the envelopes. Then he opened a new word processing document and began typing.

You are reading this note because I, Robert Paige, have been murdered. As of this writing, I don’t know who did it, but I can point you in the right direction. Last week I was assaulted by two men in the Saint Frances University parking lot as I was leaving to go home after my night class. Their photos are included in this envelope. One of my assailants was George Heverly. The enclosed photos of his van and license plate were taken at the same time, in the parking lot, along with the photos of the pistols I retrieved from them (which I gave to John Wellington for processing).

Mr. Heverly threatened to kill me if I did not cease my investigation of the Raul Rodriguez murder. Threatening letters were later slipped under the door at my university and home (see enclosures). I do not know the identity of the other assailant, but he has a knee injury, which I inflicted in the parking lot. Perhaps you can learn his identity from the photo or by tracing the serial numbers on the pistols.

I have reason to believe that John Wellington (currently employed by the U.S. Commerce Department) and the Miami office of the FBI may also be involved. If Svetlana Ivanova has been killed, the same people are responsible for her death as well.

Paige printed copies and inserted them into the remaining eleven envelopes. He addressed ten of them to various left-wing and right-wing media personalities, and to the Washington DC office of the FBI, then sealed all eleven envelopes and placed them in his briefcase, along with the envelope containing the note to Heverly.

Paige looked at his watch. Almost eleven. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his briefcase, turned on the television, and watched the news.

At eleven forty-five he got up, put on a black T-shirt, black pants, black tennis shoes, and a black cap, grabbed his briefcase and Glock 17, and drove to NW 17
^th
Avenue.

He arrived after midnight. His headlights broke the darkness to illuminate a neighborhood so still it might have been void of life. He parked a half block from Heverly’s house, shut down the engine and switched off his lights.

He pulled on his latex gloves, pocketed the Glock and grabbed the envelope containing the note to Heverly. He closed the door silently and walked toward Heverly’s house at a normal pace. A dog from a neighbor’s house started barking. Someone shouted
Shut up!
The barking subsided.

In Heverly’s driveway he walked to the right side of the van so he could approach without being seen. He slipped the envelope between the wiper and the windshield. A minute later he was back in the car. He started the engine, made a U-turn, and left.

Gwen noticed the envelope on the windshield and she, her father and George Jr. walked toward the van. “Daddy, there’s a big envelope on your windshield.” George Heverly usually dropped his kids off at school on his way in to work.

“Thanks, honey.” He removed it from the windshield and stared at it.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

Heverly hesitated. His gut told him not to open it in front of the kids.

George Jr. chimed in. “Yeah, dad. Open it. Let’s see what’s inside.” Gwen clasped her hands and started jumping up and down in anticipation, her pigtails bouncing behind her.

“It’s probably just something from work. I’ll open it later.” He’d been with the National Security Administration for more than ten years. They never left anything on his windshield. It would have been a breach of security.

“Please, Daddy, please!”

“OK. I’ll open it and peek inside. If it’s something interesting, I’ll show you.”

Gwen grabbed his forearm as he started to open it. The two photos Paige had taken the day before spilled onto the driveway, face up.

“Daddy, those are photos of us. And mommy’s in one of them, too.”

Heverly was stunned. He regretted his decision to buckle under and open the envelope in the presence of his children. He realized he had made a stupid mistake.

He had to say something. “I guess some nice man decided to share the photos with us.” He grabbed the photos out of Gwen’s hands and stuffed them back in the envelope as fast as he could.

“What else is in the envelope, daddy? Are there more photos?”

He had to end this conversation. Cautiously, he looked inside the envelope, making sure his kids wouldn’t be able to see its contents. There were more photos. The one on top was of his accomplice, face bloodied. He figured it must have been taken at the university parking lot, where Paige knocked them both out.

“No, it’s just some documents.”

Gwen looked disappointed. He tried to hide the worried look that must have been on his face. They got in the van and started off for school. All Heverly could think about was the contents of the envelope. How did Paige find out who he was or where he lived? Was his family in danger? He would have to wait until he dropped the kids off to read the note he saw in the envelope.