Private Sector (43 page)

Following that line of thought, I said, “And if it came to light, the firm could shovel the crap in our direction. The partners would say they had patriotically volunteered their services for this Army program, and never realized how stupid and incompetent JAG officers are.”

“But like you, Lisa probably discovered it, and she had to be eliminated.”

“Right.”

“But how did they get onto her?”

“Well, when I became curious, I faxed the audit to my brother, who’s a business wizard. He interpreted the spreadsheets and told me what I should worry about.”

“Back to Lisa, please.”

“We’ve never left Lisa. The other victims, what were their jobs?”

“A TV news personality, an accountant, an SEC attorney . . . oh, shit.”

“Right. Lisa stumbled onto something suspicious, something she didn’t understand, and she gave financial data to Julia Cuthburt, an accountant, and Anne Carrol, an SEC attorney, for inter

pretation.”

“But how did the firm find out?”

“Hal Merriweather, I think.”

“Why?”

“Hal gets printouts from the server twice a day. I’d guess that when Lisa e-mailed Cuthburt and Carrol, Merriweather recognized the SEC and Cuthburt’s accounting firm from their Internet addresses.”

“What about Fiorio?”

“Maybe Lisa was using her to expose this thing. I don’t know what her role was, or why she was murdered.”

And of course, Janet then asked, “And me? Lisa and I never discussed a word about this.”

“Well, I’ve thought about that.”

“Go on.”

“In Lisa’s e-mails to you, Cuthburt, and Carrol, she mentioned packages. I think the packages were the audit, and I think Merriweather presumed you got one, too.”

In fact, I was speculating wildly. I was connecting dots in midair. But the dots did connect.

After a moment, Janet said, “So they sent a hit man after Lisa, and the rest of us, to bury it.”

“Yes.” Then I said, “Incidentally, did you call your friend in Boston and ask him to check on Grand Vistas?”

“I did. I should call him back now, shouldn’t I?”

She should, and we agreed she’d call me right back. I returned to the living room, where Spinelli and his buddies were seated on the couch, shotguns in their laps, eyes glued to an old rerun of
Miami Vice.
Cops love their cop shows.

We spent a few moments surveying the preparations. This began with an incisive dissertation by Charlie about the vulnerabilities and ports of entry to my home. My apartment complex had been built some fifty years earlier, when construction techniques included heavy steel girders, cinderblock walls, and super-thick layers between floors. Were the building newer and less sturdy, he informed me, intruders might blow their way through walls or ceilings, but that wouldn’t happen here. I informed Charlie that this was exactly the selling point that drew me here. He thought that was very funny.

He next showed me an electronic device he had installed on the floor of the tiny porch off my living room: a dark pad that operates like a dog fence, except the current is triggered by touch and vibration. Were I to, say, accidentally wander out onto my porch, Charlie assured me, I’d be fine. I’d get some fried hairtips and loose teeth, but the voltage was designed to be incapacitating, not lethal. My windows were covered with dark paper and wired with motion sensors. A miniature camera in a filament had been run underneath the door, displaying the hallway. Four metal shooter’s shields of the variety favored by SWAT teams had been erected in the living room, facing the door.

After we inspected all these little treats and nasties, Bill asked me, “What makes you think he’ll come soon?”

“A hunch.”

Charlie asked, “How does he even know you’re here?”

“Because they’ve been following Janet and me for days.”

“They?” Spinelli asked. I guess I had failed to mention this part to him.

“Yes, they,” I responded. “Inside the files in the rental car were multiple photos of Janet and me. Janet, for instance, was photographed the same day Lisa died. The picture was taken in Boston. Think about that.”

“No shit.”

“He’s not acting alone. He has an accomplice who handles the research, probably handles logistics, and helps set up the kill.”

He shook his head. “That’s how the asshole kills so many, so quickly.”

“We should assume they saw me leave the firm and come here.”

The phone rang and I returned to the bedroom.

It was Janet, and she informed me, “I caught John at home. He says there’s nothing in his database about Grand Vistas.”

“Is that odd?”

“For privately owned internationals that do little business in the States, no. So he called the U. S. consulate in Bermuda. The consulate found an address and sent a man over to check. Grand Vistas occupies a small office on Hamilton Street. The consulate man spoke with the landlord and was told Grand Vistas has rented the office the past four years. The landlord says he rarely sees anybody enter or leave.”

“Meaning what?”

“John was guessing, but the office might contain a phone switch. The office fulfills the residency requirements;calls come in and are rerouted somewhere else.”

“Isn’t that odd?”

“Not according to John. Corporations that want the tax benefits of Bermudan registration set up these empty shells fairly frequently.” She added, “He then called the SEC and asked some contacts there if they have anything on Grand Vistas.”

“Did they?”

“They never heard of it.”

“Anything else?”

“One more thing. The SEC sent an open inquiry to their counterparts in every European country. It was marked expedite, so hopefully they’ll respond soon.”

There was a long silence, then Janet said, “Sean, it’s time to tell George about this.”

“Is he there? . . . With you?”

“No. He dropped me off and immediately left to attend to some business. He left me his cell phone number.”

“We will not tell him. Not yet.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Did I mention who runs the backbone of the FBI’s data and Internet needs? Morris Networks.”

“This is scary.”

She was right. It was scary.

But I was also pleased that the pieces were finally falling into place. It was all coming together—the killer, the motive, the accomplices—all the who, what, and how stuff that solves a crime. Right?

Wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something, something big, that in making everything fit together, I was looking the wrong way.

CHAPTER FORTY

S
O WE WERE HUDDLED IN MY LIVING ROOM IN OUR BULLETPROOF VESTS, swapping stories, watching the big-screen tube, munching popcorn, the usual routine when you’re expecting a hit man to drop in.

The Army expends a lot of energy and money trying to understand things nobody but soldiers give a crap about. For example, the best time to attack somebody. The general theory holds this to be somewhere between 3:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M. , when sleep cycles are heaviest, alertness is dullest, moonlight is dimmest, and, in our case, TV shows are worst. After Jay Leno, it’s a bottomless pit. Sometimes, before Jay Leno.

We were reduced to infomercials after about 2:00 A.M. , and I was out of gas, as was Spinelli, since we’d both spent the previous night playing masked crusader and rushing to Janet’s rescue.

Charlie kept his nose tucked inside a small cathode-ray screen that led to the tiny camera that peeked out into the hallway.

By 4:00 A.M. , I began entertaining the notion that this guy would try to hit me on the way to the courtroom that morning. For a variety of reasons, moving targets are easier to take down than stationary ones. But perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to nap.

The more unsettling notion I tried not to dwell upon was that nobody was coming after me. I had guessed right about Boston, but guesses are like coin tosses: fifty-fifty every time.

At 4:05, Charlie popped his nose out of the monitor. He said, “Somebody’s out there. Near the end of the hall, too far to see clearly.”

Bill helpfully suggested, “Could be a neighbor going for a jog or leaving for work.”

Yes;could be. But they all grabbed their rifles and shotguns, we adjusted our vests, and we crouched behind the shooter’s shields. I was beginning to wish I had a weapon.

Spinelli whispered to his partners, “Shoot to kill.”

The proper advisory was “employ only reasonable force,” and as an attorney, I should have swiftly corrected and clarified this point. I let it slide. People who try to get fancy in situations like this often get dead.

A few minutes passed during which Charlie kept his face pressed into his monitor. In fact, so much time passed that we were all starting to unwind and relax, when out the blue there was this loud, awful scream on the porch. At the same instant, the TV shut off and the lights went off, apparently from the energy surge on the porch.

Spinelli immediately spun around and began pumping rounds through the glass porch door, which showered outward.

Bill was beside me and he suddenly doubled over. Then Charlie flew backward off his feet and landed with a thud. Spinelli screamed, “Shit!” and kept firing his M16 through the destroyed porch door, where three dark figures had suddenly materialized, dangling off ropes, pointing silenced weapons inside, spraying my apartment with bullets.

A second later, my apartment door exploded from a huge blast that blew wooden splinters through the air.

Enough of this no-weapon shit—I scrambled around the floor, found Bill’s shotgun, rolled backward, and aimed it at the door. A dark figure came diving through, and I fired twice but couldn’t be sure I hit him. Then another figure dashed through, I fired again, caught him in the midsection, and he flew backward, right back into the hallway.

Spinelli had emptied his M16 and now resorted to his pistol. He was still firing at the porch, although when I spun around and looked, the figures on the ropes had vanished.

Then there was silence. I said, “Reload and stay down.”

Spinelli said, “Something’s stickin’ out my fuckin’ shoulder.”

I felt around the floor for Bill and Charlie. My hand crashed into a body, then a full head of silky hair—Bill, apparently, and I felt his neck for a pulse. The pressure brought a moan. His ticker was still pumping; faintly, but that’s all you need. I kept moving my hand around until it came up against Charlie; I could feel no pulse. Shit.

My ears were ringing, but then I thought I heard sirens. I tried to picture what just happened—three guys were hanging off ropes outside the porch, and at least two more had tried to make it through the door. Not one guy; five guys. I mean, what the . . . ?

The phone suddenly rang. I crawled over and answered.

A male voice ordered, “Put Drummond on.”

The voice was baritone, but this weird mechanical baritone, as though it had smoked a million cigarettes, or was being distorted by some high-tech disguising device.

I said, “Who the hell’s this?” I mean, maybe I didn’t know who, but I did know
what
the call was about—roll call. Was I dead, or did I still need to be whacked? I’m not completely stupid, and I had no intention of confirming anything.

There was a weird laugh before he replied, “Tell Drummond it’s the dimwit from Boston. Stop wasting my time and put him on.”

I replied, “Can I take a message?”

“Heh-heh. You’re very funny, Drummond.”

Shit.
“And you’re an incompetent fuckup. This is twice you missed. First Janet Morrow, now me. Your bosses know about this

one yet?” “I didn’t do this one. I just dropped by to, you know, observe.” What an asshole. This guy’s ego was even bigger than I imag

ined. I said, “I forgot. You only do unarmed women.” “I do who I want.” He added, menacingly, “For example, I’m

going to do you.” “Before or after I mount your slimy ass on my wall?” “You have a wall left?” He laughed. “I heard a big explosion.” “The place was in need of a redo. Thank your pals for me.” “I’ll pass it along. But forget the redo. Waste of money.” “I’m out of your league, asshole. You do unarmed girls.” “You’d be surprised, Drummond. I kill guys all the time.” “You’re right. . . I’d be surprised.” We both let a moment pass,

then I said, “You’re probably telling yourself the ghoulish things you did to those women were necessary to mislead the cops. Truth is, you’re a sick little pervert, and deep down, you enjoyed it.”

“You’re a shrink now? Stick with law.” I laughed. “Hey, truth is, I’m looking forward to meeting you.” “You’ll never see me coming.” “I’ve already seen you. Big, dopey-looking jerk-off who’s taken

so many steroids your tiny dick’s stopped working. Maybe that’s why you enjoyed doing the women.” He paused a moment, then said, “
The priest
. . . you were the one who yelled?”

“Confess to me, jerk-off. Tell me all how your mother mistreated you, how you saw her diddling Daddy, and how much that screwed up your head.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll tell you my life story as I cut body parts off

you.” “I’ll be looking for the big pussy in ladies’ undies.” “Look all you want, Drummond. I never look the same twice.” “Discuss your identity issues with someone who gives a shit.” We both paused again, then I asked, “Incidentally, who trained

you?”

“Self-help books and practice. Who trained you?”

“My little sister. That’s all I need to take your ass down.”

We both chuckled, a couple of adolescents trading dopey insults and playground threats. But we meant every word of it. And we both, through however we learned it, could deliver on our threats.

Then he said, “But in the interest of accuracy, Drummond, you don’t have a little sister. A brother, John, and a mother and father who also live in California, but no little sister. In fact, I have their addresses in my pocket.”

I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, asshole. Go near them and I’ll make your death indescribably painful.”

He laughed. “Well, this has been really fun. I enjoy getting to know my victims. It makes my work so much more meaningful, and memorable.”