Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (19 page)

“I’ll order us a cab to the station,” Mills said.

“Sod that. I’ll get one of the uniforms to drive us back. It’s the least they can do,” McKittrick said and marched off toward the nearest cop car.

“I feel like I abandoned you,” Mills said. “I should have come with you.”

“And give him twice the target to aim at? Forget about it. In the circumstances, we did the only thing we could.”

“Even so.” Mills sniffed and looked down at the ground.

“Stop beating yourself up. It doesn’t help.” She touched him lightly on the arm. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of experience.”

He smiled at her and nodded, then, seemingly instinctively, he craned his neck down and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Taken completely off guard, Ingrid reared away from him and stumbled backward. Mills’ expression suddenly turned from sympathy to something approaching horror.

“God. I’m so sorry,” he blurted, “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just… You looked so… I wasn’t thinking.”

Ingrid didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing. She turned her head to see McKittrick waving at her from a patrol car twenty or so yards away. Ingrid hurried toward her without risking a backward glance at Mills.

30

“My God—what the hell happened to you?” Sol Franklin stood at his front door and stared at Ingrid open-mouthed.

Without thinking, Ingrid raised a hand to her head. “It’s nothing. Someone got a little out of control with a bow and arrow.”

“They did what?”

“Are you going to invite me inside, or should I tell you all about it in your front yard?”

Sol pulled the door wide open and ushered her inside. “Isaac’s here already, tucking into the hors d’oeuvres.”

Poor bastard
. Ingrid remembered her initiation dinner at the Franklins like it was yesterday. Sol took enormous pleasure in torturing new recruits with his wife’s cooking. If Isaac managed to get through to dessert, he’d pass the assistant deputy chief’s test with honors. Unfortunately, Ingrid would be forced to endure the same menu. She hoped she could blame her injury for her lack of appetite and Madeleine Franklin would accept the excuse.

By the end of the first course of mushroom pulp on carbonized toast—not the way Mrs Franklin had described it—Ingrid had told the little gathering all about her outdoor adventure.

“And the local cops don’t have any leads?” Sol asked.

“Short of the guy handing himself in, I don’t think they stand a chance of getting anywhere. They have closed down the facility for the time being. They were breaking every health and safety code in the book, apparently.”

“Do you think he was targeting you specifically?” Isaac asked as he placed his fork deliberately in the middle of his plate, signaling he was done. To his credit, he’d managed to ingest the whole of his mushroom mush.

“How could he be? I didn’t even know where I was headed until I arrived there.”

“Maybe he was following you.” Isaac dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and leaned a little closer toward Ingrid, who was sitting opposite him.

“I think that’s a little fanciful.”

“But not impossible?”

“As good as.” The thought had crossed Ingrid’s mind. But since she’d been in the UK, only a half dozen cases had resulted in the arrests of suspects. Ingrid knew for a fact four of those were back in the US and the other two were both in custody here in London. She’d dismissed the idea that someone was targeting her specifically almost as soon as it had occurred to her. “It’s not like I’ve made any enemies.”

“Oh I don’t know, I can get pretty pissed at you from time to time.” Sol smiled broadly at her.

“You look so pale,” Madeleine Franklin said. “Do you think maybe you should be in the hospital?”

“No, ma’am, really, I’m just fine. I’m just so sorry I don’t have much of an appetite.” She offered a weak smile while Sol shot her an admonishing glare.

Uncomfortable with so much attention focused on her, Ingrid was keen to change the subject. “Say, Isaac, did you get a chance to follow up on the missing person case on Friday?”

Before he could answer, Madeleine Franklin got to her feet and announced that the main course would follow imminently. Ingrid saw Isaac stiffen slightly. “I suggest you stop talking about work by the time I come back in.”

“Need a hand, my love?” Sol said it with the demeanor of a man who is permanently banned from the kitchen. He hadn’t moved a muscle—he knew before he asked what his wife’s answer would be.

“Did you manage to pull up the phone records?” Ingrid asked Isaac.

“He hasn’t used his cell phone for three straight days. Or his bank cards.”

“You think it’s time to call in the local cops?” Ingrid asked him.

“Can I do that?” Isaac glanced at Sol for guidance.

“Sure you can,” Ingrid answered. “This is your case now.”

Isaac straightened his back and sat a little taller. “OK—I will.”

“Just keep me posted.”

“Of course. I’ll get onto the local Borough Command first thing in the morning.”

“If he survives the next two courses,” Sol mumbled to Ingrid. “In the lull before the oncoming storm, I’m going to smoke a cigarette very slowly. I’ll see you good people later.”

“You OK here on your own for a while?” Ingrid asked Isaac. “I need to speak to Sol about something.”

“Sure—just come back before the food arrives.”

Ingrid smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder as she walked past. Isaac Coleman was shaping up OK, especially if he graciously made his way through the main and dessert. Ingrid headed for the kitchen and Madeleine pointed to an open back door. Through the gap Ingrid saw Sol leaning on a wooden rail at the far end of his deck.

“Don’t be long,” Madeleine said, and dabbed at her brow with a napkin. She peered into the oven and sighed.

Ingrid hurried to join Sol and stood at the rail with him—staring out into a darkening backyard.

“Has he passed the test?” she asked him.

“Too early to call. He didn’t play with his first course like you did. So he gets some Brownie points for that.” He turned and peered into her face. “Does it hurt?”

“I’ll survive.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You know me, takes more than a lunatic playing cowboys and injuns to keep me down.”

“How’s the City trader case coming along?”

“Still waiting for the cops to locate the missing cleaner. I don’t hold out much hope.”

“You don’t think the cops are up to the job?”

“They don’t really stand a chance. Hernandez could be anywhere. I’m still trying to figure out why Matthew Fuller was targeted. I’m sure if we could just persuade Witness Protection to reveal his former identity—”

“We’ve been through this already. You know what I think about it. He was a kid when his name changed and the family moved house. Too young to make any enemies. Especially the kind who would spend the next twenty or so years hunting him down. You’re chasing your tail on that one. It’s not a percentage shot.”

“But we’ve played all the percentage shots already. And we’re losing the game.”

“Maybe I’ll run it past the deputy chief. Let her make the decision.”

“Thanks, Sol,” Ingrid said begrudgingly. She knew there was as much chance of Amy Louden agreeing her request as Isaac asking for a second helping of his main course.

Sol took an extra long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an old champagne bucket filled with sand. “We’d better get back in there, give the poor kid some moral support.”

“Hey,” Ingrid said, “I forgot to tell you… I found myself a perfect apartment.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking.”

“It was a spur of the moment thing, I guess.”

“Sick of hotel gourmet cooking, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You are?”

“It means you’re planning to stay on at the embassy. And that makes me very happy.”

31

The next morning Ingrid felt remarkably good, considering what she’d been through the day before. She was at her desk by eight. Isaac didn’t show up until well after nine.

“You survived the night,” Ingrid declared when he shuffled to his desk. “For moments at dinner it was pretty much touch and go.”

“I’ve got a strong constitution.” He laid a hand gently on his stomach.

“You certainly have. I’ve got to admit, I was impressed.”

He gave her an uncertain smile and lowered himself gingerly to his seat.

Ingrid then spent the next three hours chasing Mbeke, Fraser and the detective from the paintballing place for updates. When she eventually tracked them all down, she discovered they had nothing new to report.

At midday she received the call she’d been hoping for.

“Mike—you got something?”

“You wanted a list, I got you a list.”

“And so fast too.” Ingrid knew Mike Stiller wouldn’t just put the information she’d requested in an email. He needed praise far too much for that. She just needed to remember to heap some on him at every given opportunity. “You are a miracle worker, Agent Stiller.”

“You know me, I try to squeeze in three miracles before breakfast.”

Ingrid had to remind herself that it was still only seven a.m. in D.C. He must have been working on her request over the weekend. Things had to be difficult at home, with Mary or the kids, for him to need to escape to the office quite so much. “What can I say—I owe you majorly.” She waited for him to continue in his own good time.

He cleared his throat then made a gulping sound. Knowing Mike it was probably his fourth latte of the morning. “So… Barbara Highsmith.” He swallowed another gulp of coffee. “The ex-congresswoman handled thirty-two financial cases in total while she was working as an Assistant US Attorney. That’s an average of just under five a year. Seems she specialized.”

Great
.

“Any stand-out cases I should pay closer attention to?”

“You haven’t exactly been clear what I was supposed to be looking for.”

“A defendant who had some reason to want to finish her off.”

“I guess at the time, any one of them might have wanted to wreak revenge. But bearing a grudge over twenty years later? You’d think the rage would have subsided after all that time.”

“Unless it was festering while he was inside.”

“I don’t have time to analyze all thirty-two cases for you.”

“No, of course not. And I don’t expect you to. Email over the files and I’ll start on the analysis myself.”

“Oh… OK.” He’d managed to convey a whole world of disappointment with just two words.

“Did any of the cases involve Witness Protection?” Ingrid asked.

“Wait a minute, I’ll check.” Less than thirty seconds later he had an answer for her. “We have a grand total of three witnesses who traded key evidence for immunity from prosecution and a new identity.”

“Can you give me their names?” She grabbed a pen and pad from her desk drawer.

Mike spelled out each one for her. “But wouldn’t it help to know their new identities too?”

“In a perfect world. The guy who’s death I’m investigating here in London was in Witness Protection, but the Marshals Office are refusing to let me know anything about his former life.”

“You want me to speak to them?”

“Would you?”

“I have a buddy in the Marshals Service. He owes me a couple favors. What’s the guy’s new name?”

Ingrid gave him Matthew Fuller’s details, cursing herself for not thinking of asking Mike for help before. He’d been a Fed so long, he had contacts in pretty much every law enforcement agency there was.

“Leave it with me.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Ingrid was trying very hard to contain her excitement. Knowing Matthew Fuller’s former identity might crack the whole case wide open.

“Is that it?”

“Before you go, can you tell me the names of the convicted defendants in the Witness Protection cases?”

Again, Stiller spelled out the names for her. Then made his excuses and hung up.
 

Ingrid set to work, searching the database for information about the three defendants. By the time she’d discovered the fate of the third, she felt like banging her head against the desk. If she didn’t already have a throbbing headache, she would have done just that.

All three defendants were dead. Two had died after they’d completed their sentences, the third had died in custody, shot dead by a prison guard after attempting to attack the deputy governor. The prisoner went down only after the third bullet was pumped into his chest. Ingrid stared at the screen as she tried to picture the incident. The prisoner must have known his act was suicide, plain and simple. There was a phrase the Behavioral Analysis Unit was fond of using in those circumstances: suicide by cop.

Ingrid continued to stare at her computer monitor. Her last behavioral training session had taken place almost twelve months ago at Quantico. She tried to recall any details that might be relevant. The subject of ‘suicide by cop’ had come up more than once. She was pretty sure, that according to the Behavioral Analysis guys, sociopaths were much more likely to choose that option of suicide than any other. They were still determined to make their mark, to bend law enforcement officers to their will, right up until the end. She looked at the details of the inmate: Henry Ellis.

If he’d still been alive he would be sixty years old by now. Too old to fit the description they had for Darryl Wyatt in any case. But possibly the right profile in terms of his psychology. And sociopathy often ran in families.

She continued to study the details of the case and discovered that Henry Ellis’ crime involved a Ponzi-style scheme that swindled dozens of innocent investors out of millions of dollars. He used the money from each tranche of new investors to pay out to the existing ones at fabulous rates of return, generating an investment frenzy and an endless supply of greedy, if decidedly gullible, investors. The original investor gave evidence against Ellis in return for immunity from prosecution. Then, with his family, he disappeared, courtesy of the Witness Protection Program.

It was way too early to expect Mike Stiller to have contacted his buddy in the US Marshals Office, but Ingrid had to at least try him. She tapped his number into her cell. He answered after the first ring. “Mike, you got any news for me?”