Kill Fee (19 page)

P
arkerson showered at home, changed clothes, and drove to his office. Waved his security badge at the guard at the gate and parked the Cadillac in the lot beyond. Turned off the ignition and sat in the car and felt himself drifting away.

He was tired, Christ. He’d slept maybe seven hours since Friday. He wanted to crawl into the Caddy’s capacious backseat and just close his eyes for a while, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had real work to do.

He forced himself out of the car, across the parking lot, and into the low building. He made himself the biggest cup of coffee he could manage, and dragged ass into his office. Jamie was already at her desk. “Morning, Mr. Parkerson,” she said. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Busy.”

She cocked her head. “Looks like it.”

“Yeah. Really busy.” He forced another grin at her as he entered his office. “Married life.”

Parkerson collapsed into his leather executive chair and stared at his blank computer screen and let his head swim. The coffee wasn’t helping. Maybe he needed drugs. There was so much to do.

There was work, first of all. As in high-paying, taxable, government-sanctioned work. He’d meant to take the files home that weekend, work on them in front of the television. He hadn’t intended to drive down to Miami to witness a murder. To rescue the asset. To kidnap an army veteran from Atlanta, Georgia. He’d put in a long weekend, and he’d fallen behind. He would have to bust ass to catch up.

Then there was the program itself. Wendell Gray would need training,
and Lind needed a new identity. Parkerson sat back in his chair and sighed. Wondered if he could afford to take a vacation somewhere when the new asset was ready. A beach, maybe. A resort, somewhere out of the country, but clean. Somewhere he could sleep, and not worry for a change.

Parkerson leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Closed his eyes and pictured a king-size bed and room service. The sound of the ocean. Felt himself drifting away. Then Jamie rapped on the door. “You have that nine-thirty,” she said. “With the board. You okay?”

Parkerson sat up. “Just reviewing my notes.”

“Oka-ay.” Jamie stared in at him. “You really did have a weekend, huh?”

“Burst a pipe in my basement. Really screwed up my Sunday.”

Jamie clucked. “Ouch. Anyway, the board’s ready when you are.”

Parkerson took a long drink of coffee. Turned on his computer and waited for it to load. Felt the buzzing in his head ramp up a notch, and wondered how he was going to make it through the week.

Then he thought of Wendell Gray in the lake house. Imagined the money his new asset would bring in someday soon, when the training regimen was complete. Enough money for a big yacht like the
Kyla Dawn
,
maybe, or, better yet, his own private lake. An island in the middle, cool and calm. No traffic jams. No Jet Skis. No teeming masses to spoil his mood. The thought energized him, and he stood, grinning at the image, and strode from the room to meet the board.

S
tevens grabbed a few hours’ sleep in his suite at the Golden Glades. Then he woke up and called Nancy. “Hey,” he said, “you have time to chat?”

His wife sighed. “I’m headed into the office, Kirk. It’s a hell of a week.” She paused. “I guess I have a couple minutes.”

“How’s your weekend?” said Stevens. “How are the kids?”

“Kids are good. Sounds like they miss you. Andrea’s been all over me to tell her what you’re up to.”

Stevens frowned. Since she’d met Carla Windermere in the middle of the Carter Tomlin case, his daughter had become an FBI junkie. Stevens had to admit it pleased him, just a little, that she’d taken such an interest in the family business, but both he and Nancy still harbored concerns that their daughter’s ordeal with Tomlin had left her with some yet-undiscovered psychological trauma.

“I told her I didn’t know,” Nancy said. “Just that it had to do with Spenser Pyatt. Why that means you’re in Miami, I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“It’s a contract killer,” Stevens told her. “The same guy who killed Pyatt killed another man here. Both hits bought and paid for. We ran down another client last night.”

“A contract killer. Well, I can’t very well tell Andrea that, can I? After the whole thing with Carter Tomlin, I’m amazed the poor girl can still sleep at night.”

“She’s tough, Nance,” Stevens said.

“Yeah, Kirk, I know she’s tough. An experience like that, though. And her dad running around like Sylvester Stallone . . .” She was silent a moment. “Look, just be careful, all right?”

“Always, Nancy.”

“Seriously. Don’t get yourself killed.” She sighed. “I’m going to tell the kids you’re on vacation or something. Deep-sea fishing. Partying with supermodels. Whatever won’t give them nightmares.”

“Supermodels give me nightmares,” Stevens said. “I’ll come home as soon as I can.” He told her good-bye, and that he missed her, and then he hung up the phone and leaned against the headboard and pictured Nancy at home and wondered why he’d even come to Miami.

But he knew why. He thought about chasing Comm on the
Island Joy
. The shoot-out. The interrogation. Comm was waiting now in the FBI’s Miami office. He would doubtless have more to tell them.

Stevens thought about Killswitch. About the zombie shooter and the anonymous accomplice in the gray Cadillac. All of it a mystery, but Comm would have information. Sooner or later, the truth would be revealed.

The thought propelled Stevens out of bed. He showered quickly and went down to the hotel lobby, where he ate a fast breakfast and waited for Windermere.

C
omm unwrapped the Sausage McMuffin. Scarfed it down, drained his coffee, and polished off the hash browns. Then he looked across the table at Stevens and Windermere. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

He was clear-eyed this morning. He seemed to have slept. There were shadows under his eyes, and he smelled like diesel fuel, sweat, and a night in a holding cell, but he held Stevens’s gaze and set his jaw and sat at the table, lucid and ready to talk.

“Killswitch,” said Windermere. “How did you find him?”

Comm looked around the interview room. Exhaled. “First things first. I don’t want this bastard coming back for me.”

Windermere nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m no snitch. I’m no rat. I’m just—” He looked at Stevens. “You had to see this guy, man.”

“You’re safe,” Stevens told him. “We’re here to protect you.”

“My mother, too. She’s the only family I have. I want someone watching her until you guys catch this psycho. Understood?”

“He’s not coming for your mother,” said Windermere.

“How do you know?”

“He’s a contract killer,” said Stevens. “He probably wasn’t coming back for you, even if he did make the connection. You paid him. The contract was done.”

Comm shook his head. “My mother gets protection or I’m not talking.”

Windermere swapped a glance with Stevens. “Fine,” she said, sighing. “What’s the address?”

Comm recited the address. Windermere wrote it down. Ducked out of the room and handed it to Ojeda. Comm watched her. When she was back inside the room, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You guys have a computer?”

OJEDA BROUGHT IN A LAPTOP.
Logged in to the CID wireless signal and opened an Internet window. Then he turned the computer toward Comm.

Comm typed in a Web address. “Killswitch-dot-com,” he said. “Easy.”

It was a generic-looking website. A stock image at the top, a soldier with a rifle. A couple of articles beneath, a long row of links. It didn’t look like much more than a collection of news clippings, all of them related
to guns. There wasn’t anything to suggest it was a front for a hired killer. Windermere frowned. “This is how you found him?”

Comm nodded. “Looks pretty simple, right? It’s not, though.” He clicked on a link that said
CONTACT
and a pop-up form appeared. There were entry fields for name, e-mail address, questions. There was a drop-down menu. Comm clicked on it and scrolled.

“Contracting,” he said. “That’s what you select. And you have to be pretty damn crafty with your request. There’s a code.”

“A code,” said Windermere. “How the hell do you know the code?”

Comm laughed at her. “Same way I know about Killswitch,” he said. “It’s not hard, if you know what to look for.”

“And what do you look for?” said Stevens.

“People.” Comm shook his head. “You look for people. Listen, I’m not exactly a choirboy. You saw the cocaine. I know people who have bad connections. Maybe I told my dealer I was looking to put out a hit. Maybe my dealer gave me Killswitch.”

“Your dealer,” said Windermere. “Who is he?”

“Nice try. I told you I’m no snitch.”

“You’re giving us Killswitch.”

“I’m trying,” said Comm. “You guys keep asking questions. Who my dealer is doesn’t matter. Killswitch is out there. People just know about it.”

Stevens cleared his throat. “So you typed in the code. You asked for contracting help. Then this guy got in touch and asked who you wanted killed?”

Comm shook his head. “It’s not like that. First the guy has to vet you. Make sure you’re clean.”

“How?”

“The hell if I know. Wasn’t like he came to my house.” Comm picked up his empty cup of coffee. Glanced inside, and set it back down. “Not that I know of. Anyway, I guess he liked what he saw, because a week after I got in touch, he invited me in.”

“Invited you where?” said Windermere.

Comm smiled to himself. Punched in another URL. “Killswitch-dot-com,” he said, “slash special projects.” He pressed
ENTER
and a gray page loaded up. There was a user name field and a password prompt. The rest of the page was blank.

“Special projects,” said Stevens. “The murders.”

Comm grinned wider. “Exactly.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked Comm. “Get us in.”

P
arkerson was in the middle of his presentation when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for a minute or two. Then he froze.

His BlackBerry was on the long boardroom table with a stack of files and his coffee. That meant the buzzing in his pocket wasn’t work calling, or his wife. The phone in his pocket was the Killswitch phone.

Parkerson stumbled through the rest of the presentation. The board stared at him, impassive. He rushed through his conclusion and sat down quickly. Drank his coffee and fought the urge to look down at the phone. Sat on his hands for ten minutes, wanting to burst.

There was a pause in the action. The lights came on, and Parkerson stood. “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing sheepishly to his coffee cup. “Drank a little too much java. Be right back.”

He hurried out into the hall and down to the men’s room. Found a stall and took out the Killswitch phone. A text message. Someone had logged in to the Killswitch database. Parkerson scrolled through. Then he stopped. Comm.

Comm had returned to Killswitch. He’d logged in twenty minutes
ago, was still in the database now, but he hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t written a message. He was just lurking inside.

Parkerson studied his phone. The job was done. The target was eliminated, and the fees had been paid. There was no reason for Comm to return.
Comm,
he thought, frowning.
What the hell are you doing?

C
omm scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Everything was right here.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. Then back at the Killswitch database. Comm had entered his password and logged in to the Special Projects page. But the page had come back empty. There was nothing in the database.

“What were you expecting?” she said.

Comm looked at her. “Everything,” he said. “My correspondence with Killswitch. My application.”

“Job was finished,” said Windermere. “No sense leaving the evidence kicking around. Especially if he figured there’s a chance you’d tell the cops.”

Stevens stared at the blank screen. “So what do we do?”

“Guess we try and trace the website.” Windermere walked to the door. Poked her head out. “Hey,” she called.
“Ojeda.”

PARKERSON RUSHED BACK
to his office, board meeting be damned. Jamie stood up as he passed. “Mr. Parkerson?”

“Just a minute.”
He hurried past her and closed the door behind him.
Logged on to his computer and turned on the virtual network. Booted up the IP cloaker for good measure. Then he brought up the Killswitch database.

This was dangerous. He’d never used Killswitch during work hours. He’d certainly never ditched on a board meeting to tend to the project. This was panic behavior, irrational. This would attract attention from the chairman, from Jamie. But Parkerson had to know.

He waited as the database loaded, drumming his fingers on the desk. When the page was fully loaded, he searched through until he found Comm. Still online. Parkerson clicked on his name.

Logged in from Miami, the database told him. Spat out an IP address. Parkerson copied it down and ran a trace. Felt his heart stop as he read the results. Comm was logged on through a federal government server in Miami. Parkerson checked the address, knowing already what the search would find. A moment later, his fears were confirmed. Someone in the FBI’s Miami office was inside the Killswitch database. Somehow, they’d logged in as Comm.