Point of Control (22 page)

C
HAPTER
42

Shawn’s pounding pulse slowed as he watched the agents walk past the office and head for their car. That had been too fucking close. The rage he’d been holding in finally erupted. “Goddammit, Jia! Why did you bring them here? I don’t need this stress right now.”

She cringed and shrank back. “They came to the house and accused you of kidnapping. I was scared and confused. But I wanted to show them they were wrong.”

His wife was obviously distressed, but that wasn’t his priority. He had to wrap up his basement-lab project and figure out where to move the cryptographer, who wasn’t done coding yet. Shawn didn’t trust the feds not to come back for another look around.

“They are wrong, aren’t they?” Jia grabbed his hands and held them to her own chest. “Tell me you didn’t do it!”

“We just talked about this!” He jerked free. “That you could even doubt me.”

“What about the North Korean? You asked me who was the best. Then I gave you his name, and a week later he was kidnapped.”

Why was she doing this now? He thought he had her support. But he had an answer ready. “Everybody in the personal-device business talked about Lee Nam when they heard he was coming to the symposium. And nobody believes he was really kidnapped. Our government helped him fake that so he could defect.”

Jia was quiet for a minute. “I need to talk to Uncle Tai.”

Not a chance in hell.
“Please don’t. You’ll just confuse him. He’s already distressed about the agents coming here.” Shawn had sent him back to his bedroom as soon as the feds walked out. Now he had to get Jia off the property and out of town. They would use his wife as leverage, like the weak link that she was. He deeply regretted bringing her here, but he hadn’t counted on Bailey finding his facilities. How the hell had she connected everything? He’d been so careful. Steering Jia toward the door, he said, “Why don’t you go back to Mountain View? You didn’t want to be here more than a week anyway.”

“I think I will.” She left without looking at him.

That was one fire put out. Two, actually. Milton Thurgood had left that morning, the moment he’d confirmed the hefty cash deposit in a bank account in the Cayman Islands, which was where he was headed to start a new life. Shawn would move Lee Nam to a rental he owned in Mountain View to finish coding the algorithm. That left Dana Thorpe and her son. He’d checked on Dana that morning, and she said she would complete her project that day. Once Shawn had the compound and the data, she and her son probably had to die. The thought sickened him. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but now the risk of releasing them was too great. But how? He didn’t think he could kill a woman with his own hands. Maybe Harlan would handle it. Where the hell was he anyway?

Shawn yanked out his cell phone and called him, but Harlan didn’t pick up.
Damn!
Could he count on anyone? He left a brief message: “Harlan, I need you up at the mine. Right away.”

Shawn left the bunkhouse, crossed the space to the office, and entered through the back door. His manager stood at the window, watching the parking lot. Tom turned and asked, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. The feds want this mining operation, but they can’t nationalize it, so they’re trying to use civil forfeiture to take possession.” Tom would buy that. His manager hated the government. Shawn needed everyone off the property to wrap up his project here. “Let’s shut down early today. The crew could use a break.”

“Sounds good.” Tom shuffled his feet but didn’t move. “I won’t be back. This job was already stressful before the FBI showed up. You’re pushing us all too hard.”

He was
quitting
? “Hey, just take a couple days off while this blows over.” Finding a new manager would be a pain in the ass. “I’ll give you a raise.”

“I don’t know. We’ll see what happens.” Tom grabbed his coat and headed out.

“Give everyone tomorrow off, and I’ll see you on Thursday,” Shawn called after him.

Tom didn’t look back.

Damn!
What was wrong with people that they were so afraid of hard work? Shawn paced the office, hoping to hear from Harlan before he went underground and couldn’t get a signal. He called again, and his special-ops man finally answered. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the motel, resting, like you said I could.”

That was yesterday!
“Two federal agents were just here at the mine. They searched the bunkhouse.”

“Holy shit! But they must not have found anything, or we wouldn’t be talking.”

“I’m worried they’ll be back. Or at least Agent Bailey will. The bitch has been dogging me for a week, and I don’t expect her to give up. You need to take her out.”

Harlan made a small grunting sound. “That didn’t work so well last time.”

“So be more prepared for it. She could send us both to prison for life if she comes back up here and finds the people we kidnapped.”

A long silence. “If I do this, I want a huge bonus. Then I’m done. This has gotten too crazy for me.”

Shawn would talk him into sticking around, but he didn’t have time now. “You’ve got it.”

“Where is she?”

“Probably in town somewhere. Maybe even the same motel you’re in.”

“I’ll need your help,” Harlan whined. “I can’t just shoot an FBI agent in the motel room. We’ll have to plan something and lure her out of town. It’s time to get your hands dirty.”

“I have my hands full!” Shawn’s patience snapped. “Jia’s going home, and Tom just quit on me. You need to step up.”

“I’ll find the agent, then I’ll call you to help with the rest. I’m not doing this alone.” Harlan hung up.

The prick!
Shawn didn’t want to leave the mine and its underground guests. But Bailey was the one person he actually wanted to see dead. If he had to make a trip into town to help get rid of the agent, he would. Depending on how much more time Dana Thorpe needed.

He hurried out the back door and crossed the grassy space again. He would give Uncle Tai some time off too. He didn’t want anyone around for what he had in mind. Except Harlan. But he needed his special-ops man to take care of Bailey first.

Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Tai was in his bedroom packing. His expression was sheepish when he looked up. “I don’t want to work here anymore.”

“I understand that you’re worried about the federal agents, but they’re gone now.” Shawn patted the older man’s back. “But go ahead and take some time off.”

“I’m going home to San Jose to stay with Mom.”

Tai was cutting and running too.
Lazy fucking cowards!
Pain and humiliation roiled through Shawn’s chest. They were just as bad as the bullies and sunny-day friends from grade school. Another worry landed on his chest. Would Jia be at their home when he got back to California, or would she abandon him too? Shawn walked out of the room, found a chair, and sat down. With long, slow breaths, he focused on his pain and fear. He visualized boxing it all up and sending it down a long tube into a vault. Feeling calmer, he headed for the laundry room at the back. Time to check on Dana’s progress again.

The bunkhouse had been built in the fifties, and the room still contained two side-by-side giant iron sinks that were attached to the wall. The eight legs all ended in round floor casings that were secured down. When they’d checked out the property, he’d accidentally discovered the basement bunker by leaning on the left sink. Something had clicked, and he’d felt the sink shift. He’d grabbed the edge and pulled, and a square section of the floor had come up with the basin, revealing an opening below. Shawn repeated that motion now, eased down the first few steps to the landing, and closed the trapdoor behind him. He made his way downstairs with the motion-sensor light he’d installed, then strode down the narrow tunnel to a door about ten yards away. He unlocked the metal closure, stepped into the old bomb shelter, and pulled the ski mask from his pocket.

The shelter had been meant to house several families during a nuclear event, so the electrical and water systems had already been in place. Transporting the equipment for the lab had been challenging—until he’d discovered a second entrance that opened at the edge of the woods. But the mine had been shut down when he bought it, so he and Harlan had had the place to themselves when they carried in the microscopes, grinders, and all the other things required to outfit the lab and holding facilities.

Shawn passed the sleeping rooms, knowing Dana would be in the lab, where he’d left her earlier. He unlocked the door on the right. The big room had been divided into separate workspaces, where two metallurgists could work on different projects. From the beginning, he’d been prepared to pay them well for putting up with the harsh environment, whether they came voluntarily or not.

Dana looked up from her computer and shook her head. “I told you I needed time to organize the data so your engineer can replicate my work. And I need to synthesize a larger sample.”

Was she stalling? Did he need to threaten to hurt her son again? Shawn crossed the room, but still kept his distance from her. “Don’t lie to me. It’s almost over, and I’ll let you both go.”

“Just give me another four or five hours. Honestly. I want this done more than you do.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“Can I bring you anything? Coffee or food?”

“No. I have water, and I ate this morning.”

“All right. I’ll see you again soon.”

“Garrett might need food,” she called out as he walked away.

Shawn stepped back into the dark concrete hall and locked the door behind him. Garrett could go hungry. He wasn’t contributing anything to the project. As Shawn hurried back out, he thought about what it would have been like to live down here after a nuclear bomb. Would anyone have survived the radiation? Was the shelter really that well sealed off?

Sealed well enough. An idea came to him for how to silence the mother and son, a painless way for them and himself. Once he was in the tunnel, part two of the plan popped into his head. A few sticks of dynamite from the storage room would collapse the passageway, and no one would ever know the basement lab had existed.

C
HAPTER
43

Tuesday, March 24, 1:00 p.m., Washington, DC

Jocelyn’s homicide unit gathered in the conference room for the weekly update. Each two-person team reported on their investigations and asked for help if they needed it. Her partner announced a breakthrough in the domestic murder they were handling, a confession and plea deal from the boyfriend who’d killed his male lover. Relieved to put that one behind them, Jocelyn updated everyone on the mugger homicide she was point person on.

“I finally identified the victim as Zach Dimizaro, a software developer, and our digital technicians analyzed the computer chip from his mouth. They found a program that encrypts personal devices so the communication is inaccessible to law enforcement.”

A few detectives groaned and one cursed. Jocelyn continued, “I gave a copy of the chip to the FBI, and they’re investigating the source. They’re also looking at who would be in the market for the software. The consensus is that the homicide wasn’t a mugging, that the killer wanted the chip but failed to find it on Dimizaro’s body.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “So essentially, the feds have taken over the case?”

“Pretty much. I still have flyers posted in the bars and restaurants in the crime-scene area, asking for people to come forward. If we get lucky and connect with an eyewitness, the call will come to me, and I’ll interview them. So I’m still on the case.”

“What about the victim’s financial and phone records?” her boss asked.

“The only suspicious activity was a series of phone calls from a burner phone. Just a number and no identification.” Jocelyn had spent the night before staring at those files and had called the phone company that morning. “The service provider is trying to track the locations of where the calls were made from.”

“Anything else?” Sergeant Murphy was ready to move on.

“Not for that case. But you also sent me to the hotel where Lee Nam, the North Korean tech guy, was kidnapped. I interviewed his bodyguard.” She glanced at her notes. “Dukko Ki-ha claims he was chloroformed by a man wearing thick makeup.”

“What?”

“That’s what he said.” She hadn’t seen the security video. “I talked to the kitchen staff, and one person saw Mr. Lee going out through the loading dock with two men. Voluntarily.”

Her boss scowled. “You’re saying he wasn’t kidnapped?”

The incident had been covered relentlessly by the media, and the speculation was rampant. “I don’t know. The FBI took over that case too.”

The sergeant gave her a half smile. “Talk to your husband, find out what you can. I like to be kept informed of what’s happening in our jurisdiction, even when we’re not running the cases.”

Ross had been working all weekend, and she hadn’t heard from him. “I’m having dinner with him tomorrow, and I’ll get back to you.”

The meeting adjourned, and Jocelyn stopped by the kitchen to retrieve a cold can of soda before heading to her cubicle. Her desk phone was blinking when she arrived, and she listened to the voice message: “This is Amy Charles. I noticed the flyer asking about the guy who was murdered. I think I saw who killed him.” The young woman recited her number and hung up.

Holy cow!
Jocelyn’s heart skipped a beat. Cynicism kicked in next, but her gut told her the young woman was sincere and sane. Jocelyn called back, excited when the witness picked up. “Amy, it’s Detective Larson. Give me the details. Where were you and what did you see?”

“I was in a cab. I had just left the Dog’s Head Tavern, and we were moving . . . west, it would be. We’d only gone a few blocks when we passed two guys on the sidewalk. One was Zach Dimizaro, the guy from the flyer. I don’t know him, but I’d seen him in the bar a few minutes earlier. The other man was bigger and older and walking toward him.”

“What did he look like?” Jocelyn had her pen and tablet ready.

“Long dark coat, knit cap, brownish skin. Maybe African-American. About six-two and heavy. Not fat, but thick. He also had a wide nose and a weak jaw.”

Wow.
Enough detail to create a composite. Where had this witness been all week? “Can you come into the department and work with a sketch artist?”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Uh, sure. I need to postpone something, but I can be there in twenty or thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.” Jocelyn gave her the address and reiterated how important the sketch would be. Nerves jumping, she hurried toward her partner’s desk in the open workspace, but he wasn’t there. Still wanting to share the news, she almost called Ross, but decided to call the sketch artist first, then wait until she had something to show. Once she had an image, she would send it to the patrol department, the FBI, and maybe the media.

Amy Charles didn’t show up on time, and Jocelyn paced the department, resisting the urge to interrupt other detectives just to take her mind off waiting. Maybe the girl was just another quack, one of the nut jobs who wasted law enforcement’s time with fabricated stories just for the attention. They got a dozen calls a day like that. But Amy had sounded so serious, so specific. Jocelyn walked up to the front desk to chat with the duty clerk. Before she could say hello, a young woman came through the door. Early twenties, well dressed, light-brown skin, and close-cropped hair. She radiated confidence.

“Amy Charles?”

“Yes. Sorry I’m late. I had a little trouble extricating myself from my other engagement.” Amy held out her hand.

Jocelyn shook it. “Detective Larson. I’m glad you’re here. Our artist is ready, so let’s get started.” She left Amy with the detective who created sketches, then went back to her desk while they worked. The process was slow and she had reports to fill out.

A half hour later, curiosity drove her down the hall to Detective Turner’s workspace.

“We’re just about finished,” he said, looking up.

Next to him, Amy nodded. “Close enough. It was getting dark, so I’m surprised I saw him as well as I did.”

The sketch artist held up his drawing. Jocelyn stared. She knew the face. Or at least she’d seen it once or twice, but couldn’t place it. She turned to Amy. “Do you have time to look at mug shots? We need to see if this guy is in the criminal database.”

“I have another half an hour, then I have to make a meeting. But I can come back late this afternoon.”

“Great. I’ll get you set up.”

Detective Turner stood. “I’ll photograph the drawing and send you a digital file to distribute.”

“Thanks.” Jocelyn led Amy to a computer station and opened their mug shot database, which contained images for witnesses to peruse. “If you find him, let me know right away. I’ll be down the hall in the open workspace.”

Back at her desk, Jocelyn checked her email. She had a message from the manager at Metro Mobile:

The calls from 202-729-4593 were made from one of two locations: near the corner of 7th and D. NW Streets or Forest Hills Park. I hope that helps.

The first location was downtown, and the park was in a nice neighborhood farther north. Jocelyn visualized the downtown area and tried to determine what businesses were nearby. A coffee shop and BBQ-style diner came to mind. But the man who’d killed Zach Dimizaro had wanted a microchip. He had to be someone with money, power, or knowledge. The area wasn’t far, and she had to go see it for herself. Her witness would be busy for a while and could call her if she found the guy.

The drive took ten minutes, and while she sat in traffic, she racked her brain for where she might have seen the perp’s face. After circling the block a few times, she squeezed into a parking space not far from the corner where the calls had been made. As soon as she stepped out of her car, the connections hit her, one after another, leaving her breathless.

FBI headquarters was two blocks away, and the perp in the sketch was a dead match for Brent Haywood, the bureau’s assistant director. Well, that didn’t help much. But the resemblance was so uncanny, she knew she’d need to look into it further or it would drive her crazy. Jocelyn fumbled to get her phone out of her pocket, then called her husband. She bounced on her feet while she waited for him to answer.

“Hey, Jocelyn. I hope we’re still on for dinner.”

“Ross, I need you to check something for me, and it’s a little weird.”

“What is it?”

“The home address of Brent Haywood, your AD.”

A pause. “That is more than weird. I’m not sure I have access to the information. What is this about?” He was clearly worried.

“I don’t even want to say it on the phone. But I’ll meet you outside your office. This is really important.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can find and call you back.”

The AD a killer?
It seemed ridiculous, and she had to be wrong. But then again, encryption was extremely critical to everyone right now—the NSA, the FBI, terrorists, and foreign governments too—which meant the price tag for the right software could be in the millions. And money had a way of revealing who people really were.