Lethal Misconduct (5 page)

Cal shook his head. “I’m still not sure I’m tracking. Is this some conspiracy theory thing, because I don’t have a clue what you want us to do about it.”

“I haven’t told you the best part yet. According to my analysis, and you know that I’m pretty fucking good at this kinda thing, I think the next cure will be at the number three public university in the country.”

The hair on the back of Cal’s stood. “And the number three school is…”

Jonas grinned. “The University of Virginia.”

Chapter 8

Bourbon Steak Restaurant

Georgetown

11:34am, April 5
th

Senator Mac Thompson liked to take lunch early. The added bonus was missing the mad rush to get a table, and he hated being crowded. He loved Bourbon Steak, which was conveniently located on the ground floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where he’d kept a room since Michael moved to the area. The head chef was a friend and liked to surprise the popular senator with delectable tastings that he generously hand-delivered to Thompson’s room upstairs.

He’d called ahead, and they had his grilled hangar steak sitting in front of him not two minutes after he’d taken his seat. Situated in a nook farthest away from the popular lounge bar, Senator Thompson savored his first bite of perfectly medium rare steak, the hint of spicy peanut dressing adding to his enjoyment. There weren’t many days that passed where he didn’t eat some kind of red meat. He considered that fact as he gazed around the empty dining room, almost every decoration patterned in varying shades of brown, matching the steak on his plate.

There hadn’t been a lot of red meat on the Thompson table when he was a child. His father had struggled to support his small family, often having to take up odd jobs out of town and send money home to his wife.

Truth be told, Mac Thompson knew his father was a simple man, but an honest one. Never in his life would he have considered a hand-out. His father believed in an honest day’s work and helping your neighbor.

The fact that he’d somehow held on to the pastures handed down through three generations of Thompsons, despite his limited income, showed his father’s resolve. There’d been times when it’d been so cold in the deep Wyoming winter that Mac and his younger brother had slept in their parents’ bed, the tiny bedroom being the only room other than the kitchen with a wood-burning stove.

They’d been hard years, with young Mac learning early on the value of hard work and toil, but his parents had been loving. Mac excelled in sports and academics, receiving an athletic scholarship to play baseball at the University of Southern California. His mother and father had been so proud, scrimping and saving to make it to as many games as they could. His father had even been there to see Mac win the College World Series in 1973 against Arizona State.

He’d died of a heart attack later that year, leaving his wife, Miranda, with a pile of bills and a parcel of land the bank was eyeing for foreclosure.

Luckily, Miranda Thompson was something of a beauty, and she was quickly targeted by a local real estate developer named Darron Weber for courtship. The relationship started slow, mostly due to Mac’s mother’s concern for her two boys, the youngest, Jake, still a senior in high school. But Darron was a good man and a patient one. He’d settled the Thompson family’s debts without the least bit of coercion.

So although he’d at first been angered by his mother’s new relationship, Mac quickly saw how much Darron loved his mother, and she in return was learning to love him.

They waited until both Thompson boys graduated college to get married. Darron Weber had become a second father to Mac and Jake, teaching them about business and giving them their first taste of a better life. It was Darron who’d taken Mac out to dinner and bought the young man his first ribeye, bone in, of course. Senator Thompson remembered that the damn thing had been as large as his plate and he’d eaten it hungrily, savoring every bite. It was during that meal that Mac Thompson silently declared to the world that he would become somebody and would never lack for anything again.

He smiled as he looked back at all he’d accomplished. A loving family. Wealth. Power. His was a life to envy. Up until his wife’s death, and now his son’s illness, he’d thought the same. With his world unraveling, Sen. Thompson took the only path he knew, his path.

Just as he was finishing the last bite of cabbage slaw, his guest arrived, wearing a loose fitting grey suit, not well tailored. Certainly not to Sen. Thompson’s standards.

“Have a seat, Colonel,” he said, pointing to the chair across from him with his fork.

Col. Cromwell nodded and sat down without saying a word, his disfigured face a mask of intensity. That was one of the things Thompson hated about the man; he could never read his facial expressions. The senator figured that Cromwell knew that and used it to his advantage.

“I take it you received my payment?” asked Thompson.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re building quite a retirement for yourself, Colonel. I hope you’re putting it somewhere safe.”

Cromwell smiled, the gesture pulling his scarred skin grotesquely. “You know me, Senator, always watching my six.”

Thompson nodded, not wanting to push the point further. Cromwell had his uses, but the powerful senator preferred to keep the man at arm’s length.

“Where are you in your search for the missing doctor?”

Cromwell took a sip of water, a tiny dribble escaping from the damaged corner of his mouth. He quickly wiped it away with his napkin. “We found him again, but he got away.”

Sen. Thompson wanted to slam his fist onto the table, but took a steadying breath instead. “How is that possible?” he growled. “We’ve been looking for him for almost a year, for Christ’s sake.”

Cromwell shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. The movement made Thompson burn inside. They’d covered every other contingency, transferred old colleagues to far off laboratories, destroyed records. They’d even gone so far as to get rid of all traces of the thief’s life. His identity had effectively vanished.

“He’s a smart man, Senator, and I’m sure he is not without his own network of contacts.”

“So find them and squeeze them for information, dammit.”

“We’re working on it. One of my staff thinks they may have found a banker who could be controlling the doctor’s financials. If that turns out to be the case, we should be able to cut off the money supply.”

At least that was something.

“Are you any closer to finding where he hid his files?”

“No, sir. He must have taken them with him. The good news is that we have a nationwide alert out with any lab that could provide him with the capability to replicate the strain. His options are limited and I’m sure his supply is dwindling.”

“I know I don’t have to tell you this, but we need him alive. Make sure your goon knows that.”

Cromwell smiled again. “Don’t worry about Mr. Vespers, Senator. He’s very good at his job.”

Chapter 9

Miramar Beach, Florida

1:45pm, April 5
th

He gazed out over the emerald green water, breathing in the cool salt air from his seat on the white sand. There was a young family with a giggling toddler playing in the surf, jumping the small waves that lapped onto shore.

Dr. Hunter Price loved the beach. The first time he’d visited Florida was with his grandfather. They’d come through after a business trip to New Orleans. Back in those days his grandfather let him tag along, sharing bits of business and lessons of manhood along the way. They always drove even though the trip from the Northeast was long.

After his grandfather’s death, he’d continued his trips to the Florida Panhandle. So many memories. Before, it was his way to escape the stresses of his job and remember his grandfather. Now it was brief respite on his way to another town. Part of him enjoyed the thrill of the vagabond lifestyle. Another wanted to settle down, maybe find a wife and have some kids.

But that wasn’t possible. He was on the run. He no longer had an identity. Anything of importance had been stripped from him. He was like a ghost, haunting his former employer, living a half life in the shadows.

Price took a pull from his bottle of beer, wishing he could stay on the beach forever. It was like it was calling him saying, “Stay and forget everything else.”

He couldn’t. As stupid as it sounded, he felt like he had an obligation to keep going, to show the world what was possible. Finishing the last swig of beer, he reluctantly pushed himself up and took a long look at the ocean. It was time to get back to work.

He’d found a cheap room just off the main strip. It was actually a subdivided trailer owned by a middle-aged divorcee by the name of Janice who was happy to take his cash in exchange for a week’s rental. He wouldn’t be in town that long, but most places were less likely to ask questions if you paid for a full week in advance.

Price ducked under the sagging aluminum awning, dodging the drops of brown rust water dripping into a murky puddle. Entering his tiny room, he threw his backpack on the bed and flopped down next to it. The cheap bed sagged under his weight, creaking with the effort as he closed his eyes. A moment later, the cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Price tensed at the sound. There was only one person who knew how to reach him. He pulled it out carefully, praying for a wrong number. It wasn’t.

He answered the call.

+++

Wilmington, Delaware

It had been a very bad morning for Brad Turnberry. First, he woke up with a raging hangover, memories of the celebratory drinks the night before a fading wisp. Luckily, his wife was out of town on a girl’s trip or she would have given him the ‘I told you so’ eyes.

Just as he dragged himself out of the bathroom for the fourth time, his phone rang shrilly, making his gut clutch. It was his boss. He’d been at the party with Brad the night before. He sounded almost as bad as Brad felt.

“Hey, I need you to meet me at the office. We’ve got some Fed assholes coming in to look at a couple of your clients.”

The mention of the Feds shouldn’t have bothered Brad, especially with the increased scrutiny after the latest economic slide, but this time he had reason to worry. Normally a by-the-book banker and financial planner, he had one client that was getting harder and harder to hide.

“Okay. I can be at the bank in fifteen minutes.”

The two Feds were waiting in his office when he arrived. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen. I’m Brad.” He moved to shake the two men’s hands, pausing when he got a look at the shorter man’s face. There was something wrong with the left side of it.
Stroke?
The man didn’t offer his hand and Brad took the hint, taking his position behind his desk.

“I’m sure your boss let you know why we’re here, Mr. Turnberry.”

“Yeah. He said something about you wanting to take a look at some of my accounts.”

The man with the warped face nodded.

“We have an ongoing investigation concerning an escaped fugitive.”

Sweat broke out on Brad’s back despite the cool temperature in the room. The hangover wasn’t helping.

“And you think one of my clients is involved?”

“What can you tell us about Frank Rounders, Mr. Turnberry?”

“I…I’ll have to look that up.” He glanced to the man in black sunglasses, who had yet to say a word. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I forgot to ask your names and who you’re with.”

“My name is Cromwell and this is my associate Mr. Vespers. We’re with the securities and exchange commission. Would you like to see our identification?” The question came out as more of a dare than a friendly offering.

Brad shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Now, let me see what I can find about Mr. Roundup, did you say?”

“Rounders. Frank Rounders. But you may know him better as Dr. Hunter Price.”

Brad tried not to let the shock show, but he felt himself pause, trying to avert his gaze toward his computer screen. Moisture tickled his upper lip, seeping out of the pores on his forehead.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said a bit too hastily.

While he did his best to look like he was clicking through files, his head spun, trying to come up with a plan. Cromwell watched. Vespers stood and walked to first one, then the second window facing the interior of the bank, closing the blinds, then locking the door.

Brad felt whatever contents were left in his stomach churn. He somehow held back the acidic bile in the back of his throat. His mind began panicking as he noticed Mr. Vespers out of his peripheral vision moving around the desk.

“I think I’ve got…yeah, here’s the account,” Brad blurted, hoping that would make the imposing Vespers retake his seat.

“I want you to freeze all accounts owned by Hunter Price,” said Cromwell.

“You mean Rounders?” asked Brad.

Cromwell nodded to Vespers, who pulled out a silenced pistol and pointed it straight at Brad’s shocked face.