The Divine Appointment (25 page)

“Mr. Moretti, my name is Porter McIntosh and I’m with the United States government.”

Joe peered at Porter through swollen eyes. Porter wasn’t certain the guy could clearly see him, but he could hear.

“I’m a U.S. citizen, and I have my rights.” Joe’s voice was labored and miserable.

Porter knew the man had no idea where he was. The thug certainly didn’t know he was in a U.S. territory. And Porter wasn’t about to let a murderer think he could use the Constitution as a shield against Porter’s wrath.

“The problem, Mr. Moretti, is that we’re not in the United States right now, and officially I’m in my office in Washington. So this meeting never took place.”

“Who are these guys?” Joe painfully nodded at Simon. “CIA?”

“Nope. They’re not CIA, FBI, NSA, or any other agency of the United States government. In fact, these guys don’t exist. Officially, they’ve all been dead for years. But they were hired by me to find you. Do you want to know why?”

“Tell me.”

Porter could see on Joe’s face that he was beginning to understand the situation, but not completely. Porter rested his foot on Joe’s chair, between his legs, and leaned into his face. “Because if the FBI were to find you, then you’d hire a lawyer, have a trial, and get a warm prison cell. And that would be too good for you. If you don’t help me and tell me what I want to know, these guys will make you disappear. Nobody will know you’re even missing. Because, like I said, they don’t exist. It’s pretty easy for them to make people disappear. They’ve had a lot of practice.”

“And if I cooperate?”

“If you cooperate, we’ll talk about a permanent residence in some place like Budapest or Warsaw instead of you swimming with the sharks.”

Porter liked talking tough. He didn’t get to do it often enough. In his day job he had to be polite and make deals. This was more fun. Porter placed his foot on the floor and stood in front of Joe with both hands on his hips.

Joe’s head slumped against the back of the chair. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know who hired you on the Shelton bombing and the Carlson murders.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Porter stepped away and displayed his back to Joe. “Get him out of here,” he ordered.

One of Simon’s men held a gun to Joe’s head while another began untying him.

“What’re they doing? Where’re they taking me?” Joe’s voice was frantic.

Porter talked with his back to Joe. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m not playing games, Mr. Moretti. Either you tell me what I want to know or this is your last day on the earth.”

“Okay!” Joe screamed. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”

Simon’s men backed away, and Porter turned around.

“But you got to promise that you won’t let her near me. Because if I tell you, she’ll be after me.” There was fear in Joe’s eyes.

“I’m not promising you anything,” Porter said. “But honestly, Mr. Moretti, are you more afraid of whoever it was who hired you…or of these guys?” Porter waved his arms at Simon and his men. “If you help us, we’re going to take you to some city in Eastern Europe. Put you up in an apartment, and after that you’re on your own. But at least you won’t be rotting away in some jail cell or worse.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you.” Joe dropped his head, as if he was afraid to say the words. “It was some woman named Stella. That’s all I know. Stella.”
Stella Hanover!
The name screamed in Porter’s mind. Of all the people in the world, he would never have guessed Stella. He knew she was ruthless but had never known her to be violent.

“Are you sure she said ‘Stella’?” Porter asked.

“I’m sure.”

“If you’re lying, things will be done to you that’ll be worse than anything these guys have ever done to anyone else.”

“I’m not lying.”

Porter studied Joe’s face. It was battered and scared, but he appeared to be telling the truth. Porter nodded at the man who’d driven him from the airport, to indicate that it was time to go. Porter stepped toward the door and glanced back at Joe’s terrified, swollen face.

“Mr. Moretti, remember that we found you this time. If you’re lying or if I ever hear about you again or if you ever set foot back in the United States, we’ll find you again. And these guys won’t be as hospitable as they were this time.”

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington DC

“Stella Hanover,” President Wallace said. He spoke into the telephone in his office and didn’t ask Porter where he was. The line was secure. “I knew she was cold-blooded, but I would never have thought anything like this.”

“All we have at this point is a name. There’s still more work to do to pin all of this on Stella and tie Proctor to it. But we’re working on it.”

“What about the FBI? Can Hughes help us?”

Porter peered at the blue Atlantic Ocean through an oval window in the sleek Gulfstream V jet. He was thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, somewhere east of Florida.

“I don’t think we should say anything to Director Hughes about it. He must be in bed with Proctor somehow. The FBI should’ve found Moretti by now.”

Porter couldn’t tell the president that he had just seen Joe Moretti face-to-face or where the guy was going. But Porter was convinced there was simply no reason the FBI shouldn’t have already found him. Simon had said it was easy. Joe Moretti had left a bright trail to follow.

Porter knew that the president wouldn’t approve of the methods, regardless of the outcome. But Porter also knew that the president wouldn’t ask him questions to which he didn’t want to know the answers.

“Who are we going to get to investigate Stella and any possible link with Proctor?” the president asked.

“You just let me handle that, sir.”

“I think it’s time to give Proctor enough rope to hang himself with.”

“I agree. It’ll be nice to have him out of our way.”

As soon as President Wallace disconnected the call with Porter, his secretary ushered Judge Shelton into his office. It was time for the press conference war to continue, with Senator Proctor firing the next salvo. But this time President Wallace was glad to see the senator’s face on television. He was doing exactly what President Wallace and Porter wanted: reconvening the confirmation hearings.

“I’ve asked Senator Montgomery and the Judiciary Committee to reconvene so they can reconsider their vote on Judge Shelton’s nomination.”

President Wallace and Judge Shelton sat on opposite sofas. Senator Proctor’s face was on the plasma monitor across the room from the president’s desk. Just looking at him annoyed President Wallace.

“The committee originally voted to recommend confirmation,” Senator Proctor continued. “But with these new developments, I think many of the members of the committee would like to ask Judge Shelton some additional questions and consider changing their votes. Senator Montgomery agrees and has scheduled the committee to reconvene on Monday.”

President Wallace pressed a button on the remote control and the monitor went black.

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. President,” Judge Shelton said.

“Everything’s going to work out fine, I assure you. You just go in there on Monday and tell them exactly what you believe.”

Washington DC

Holland Fletcher was at his desk at the
Post
on Thursday morning when he heard over the police scanner about a suspicious death on Thirty-seventh Street. Vice wasn’t his beat, but he had a sinking feeling. He left the
Post
headquarters and drove furiously toward Tiffany Ramsey’s town house. He could see the flashing blue lights two blocks before he reached his destination, and his heart sank into his stomach.

The parking areas near the curbs were filled with emergency vehicles, so he stopped his car in the middle of the street half a block from the vehicles and flashing lights. He left the driver’s-side door open and ran toward Tiffany’s home. A couple dozen people were gathered at the yellow police tape that cordoned off the area, and that slowed his progress. He pressed through the crowd and ducked under the yellow tape.

“You can’t come in here,” a blue-clad police officer yelled. He ran toward Holland and pushed him back under the tape.

“But I’m with the
Post
.”

“I don’t care if you’re the pope himself. You’re not coming in here.” The police officer’s face was rigid. He moved his body to try to shield Holland from seeing the crime scene.

But Holland had seen enough, and it wasn’t good. Employees of the DC coroner’s office rolled a gurney with a black body bag through the front door of Tiffany’s town house and lifted it into the back of a waiting ambulance.

“Can you tell me who died?”

“We’re not releasing the name until the next of kin is notified.”

“Is it Tiffany Ramsey?” he asked frantically. He peered over and around the police officer, and the officer moved each time to block his vision.

“I can’t say one way or the other.”

“Can you at least tell me whether it was the occupant of that town house?” Holland begged.

“Sir, the decedent was an occupant of this residence, but I can’t tell you anything further.”

Holland ambled miserably back to his car. His head was down, and he felt like crying. He was scared, too. He sat in his car and watched as the ambulance left the scene unhurriedly. No siren. No flashing lights. He knew that could only mean there was no urgency to carry a lifeless body to the hospital.

Holland recalled his last conversation with Tiffany and the fear in her voice over Senator Proctor. He struggled with whether to go to the police with what he knew. All he could tell them was what Tiffany had told him. The conversation wasn’t recorded. He had nothing to corroborate her fears. Would they even believe him over the word of the Senate majority leader? He doubted it.

Holland put his car in reverse and backed into an alley. When he entered Thirty-seventh Street, headed northwest, he almost struck a black Mercedes-Benz S65 sedan that pulled away from the curb. He had seen it before in practically the same location. He tried to pull out and follow it. He wanted to see who was driving or at least memorize the license plate. But his entry onto Thirty-seventh Street was delayed by two other cars that also pulled away from the curb behind the Mercedes. By the time he made it to where Thirty-seventh Street merged with Wisconsin, he no longer saw the Mercedes. He angrily banged his hand against the steering wheel.

By early afternoon the DC Metropolitan Police Department released the name of Tiffany Ramsey. Holland read through the press release and his blood boiled when he saw the cause of death: suicide by drug overdose.
Suicide!
He didn’t know Tiffany very well, but he knew her well enough to know that she hadn’t committed suicide. Things didn’t add up.

He convinced his editor to let him write a small article about Tiffany for the Friday morning newspaper. He didn’t mention Senator Proctor or his conversations with Tiffany in the article. It didn’t take him long to write it. When he finished it, Holland went home to his apartment early from work.

His telephone rang not long after 6:00 p.m.

“He’s killed another one,” the woman’s voice said.

It was
her
, and Holland didn’t feel like talking. He decided it was time to change his telephone number to an unlisted one. “Who are you talking about?”

“Lance Proctor.”

Holland lay on his back on his couch and crossed his feet at the ankles. His body was listless. He didn’t have the energy to even sit up. And he certainly didn’t want to talk on the telephone.

“The police said it was suicide,” he said flatly.

“It wasn’t a suicide. It was made to look like a suicide, but it wasn’t a suicide.”

“You seem to know a lot about it. If it wasn’t suicide, how do I know you didn’t do it?”

“You don’t, but why would I be calling you?”

“To cover your trail.”

“All I want is Lance Proctor. I don’t care about anything else.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“Because it’s easy to hate him, and he should pay for everything he’s done.”

“Well, this has gotten way too close for comfort. If Tiffany was killed instead of committing suicide, then whoever did it knows I’ve been talking to her. And they may be looking for me next. I’m not willing to take that chance.”

“You can’t give up now,” she said.

“You’ll have to get Senator Proctor on your own.”

With that, Holland pressed the Off button on the cordless receiver without saying good-bye. He tossed the phone to the floor and rolled to his side, facing the back of the couch. All he wanted to do was sleep.

The Hart Building, Washington DC

“Sir, you can’t go in there,” Cooper Harrington heard his secretary say in the outer office.

He looked up from his desk as FBI Director Leslie Hughes stormed into his office unannounced and unwelcome. It was 8:30 a.m. on Friday. Two of Director Hughes’s minions guarded him. His bald head was glowing.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Cooper shouted as he jumped from his chair behind his desk.

Director Hughes stomped to the front of Cooper’s desk. His bodyguards obediently flanked him on either side. “That’s what I was going to ask you!” he yelled at Cooper. “Somebody’s sniffing around the Carlson murders, and I want to know if it’s you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play games with me, Cooper. You want me to hold off on Moretti while you line up someone else to take credit for finding him.”

Cooper spoke defiantly. “I don’t know anything about the Carlson murders.”

“Well,
somebody’s
interested in it.”

“What are they looking for?”

“They’re checking flight schedules in and out of Jacksonville and rental-car records.”

“And it’s not your guys?”

Director Hughes folded his arms across his chest and sneered at Cooper. “Of course it’s not our guys. That’s a stupid question. If it were our guys, I wouldn’t be in here questioning you about it.”

Cooper frowned. “If it’s not you, who is it?”

“Somebody’s trying to show me up. That’s who it is.”

“Why do you think the Shelton bombing and the Carlson murders are related?”

“Because Moretti’s stupid, that’s why. He left a trail to the Carlson murders. It’s a good thing we’re working it and not the locals. It would be all over the news by now. But we’re keeping it quiet because you asked me to.” Director Hughes placed the palms of his hands on Cooper’s desk and bent his rotund frame toward Cooper. “And if you’ve got people checking behind me, I’m going to kill you.”

Cooper didn’t like the thought of that, but he hadn’t hired anybody. And he particularly didn’t like hearing the name of Joe Moretti. That could only mean one thing. That Stella Hanover was somehow involved, and that was really bad news.

“Well, I don’t know anything about it,” Cooper said. “If someone is trying to show you up, it’s not me. You’re on your own with this one.”

Director Hughes looked incredulously at Cooper. He removed a tape recorder from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed the Play button.

Cooper heard his own voice. “I’m just telling you that the senator wants this investigation to go as slowly as possible.”

Cooper tried not to look surprised. But in doing so, he was certain he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic.

Director Hughes was quick to finish the kill. “I’m never on my own, Cooper.” His voice was slow and deliberate.

Cooper turned his back on Director Hughes and walked to the window, thinking. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and cursed Director Hughes under his breath. “What do you want?”

“I want you to find out who’s going behind my back.”

Cooper didn’t like the fact that Director Hughes had something on him. But he couldn’t do anything about it. His only option was to capitulate, and it infuriated him.

“I’ll do what I can,” Cooper said. “But you’ve got to give me that tape.”

“Not until I get what I want.”

“You’ve made your point. Now leave.”

Cooper didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see Director Hughes’s face anymore. He was nauseated enough already. It wasn’t until after he’d heard the door slam behind Director Hughes and his bodyguards that he faced the interior of the room and began to pace.
Stella had Joe Moretti kill the Carlson couple
.

He dialed Senator Proctor’s direct line from the telephone on his desk.

“We’ve got another problem,” Cooper said when Senator Proctor answered.

The law offices of Elijah J. Faulkner, Jackson, Tennessee

Jill Baker went to Eli’s office just after 10:00 a.m. central time on Friday. Eli was sitting on the couch in his office, trying to work on something other than Tag Grissom’s file.

Jill was excited when she entered the room. “Did you see in the news this morning that a woman died in Washington DC yesterday?”

Eli glanced up when Jill spoke, then back to the set of documents in his lap. “No, but I suspect that happens often.”

“Not just any woman. A Supreme Court law clerk.”

Eli looked back at Jill again. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

“The police report says it was a suicide.”

“Let me guess. You think there’s something else to it.”