The Gatekeeper (22 page)

The words rang hollow, even to him. “It’s been busy here, too,” Kelly said stiffly. “And now I’ve got another body to deal with, but McLarty still won’t get us a warrant
for Burke. Apparently he was just named Morris’s replacement in the Senate, and it wouldn’t be ‘politically appropriate’ to question him.”

“Jackson Burke, the businessman?” Jake asked, confused. “You think he killed someone?”

“I think he’s involved somehow. All the shell companies tie back to him, and the building I’m outside right now has some sort of glowing powder all over the floor. They made us leave, and Hazmat won’t let me inside to see the body. God knows how long it’ll take to ID him under the circumstances.”

Syd finished up her conversation with Maltz and walked over to Jake. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, clearly impatient.

“Hey listen, Kel, I’ve got to go.”

“All right.” She sounded almost relieved. “When are you heading back to New York?”

“Not sure yet, we’ve got some loose ends here.” He considered mentioning that his next call might be from a prison cell, then figured he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. “Good luck with the ID.”

“Thanks.”

Jake heard the hopelessness in her voice, and wished he could put his arms around her. He started to say so, but she’d already hung up. He tucked the phone in his pocket with a pang of guilt and faced Syd. “Let me guess. You’re not planning on meeting everyone at the hospital.”

“No, I’ll come. But Maltz and his boys aren’t keen on being fingerprinted.”

“Shocking,” Jake said, watching as Maltz and the remaining commando loaded their injured friend into the back of Syd’s rental car. “What about getting that kid some medical attention?”

“Maltz says they’ll handle it. Earns them a bonus, un
fortunately.” Her eyebrows knit together. “I’m hoping he pulls through, otherwise we’ll owe a bundle. Dangel’s death already puts us in the red.”

“Wow,” Jake said. He couldn’t even begin to think of an appropriate response to that. “We’re a little short on cars, then, since the van is out of commission.”

“I know. I was thinking of dropping them off. Can you catch a ride with George?”

“And you’ll meet us there?”

“Sure I will.” She playfully punched his arm. “A little faith, Riley. You and I are stuck with each other.”

“Okay. The hospital is in Sacramento. You have the address?”

“Oh, I’ll find it,” she said breezily. “Bye.”

Jake watched the sedan pull away. The rest of the Feds were distracted, going through the scene, trying to piece everything together. The paddy wagon finally arrived and an agent herded the bikers inside. Jake turned to find George leaning against his car hood, watching him.

“So. Looks like she left you high and dry,” George noted.

“She’s meeting us at the hospital,” Jake said defensively.

“Sure she is.” George shook his head. “You can’t trust the Agency or anyone it churned out. You know that, Riley.”

“Well, I didn’t have a lot of luck trusting the Bureau, either,” Jake retorted.

George raised his eyebrows. “I heard you were engaged to someone from BSU.”

“I am.” Jake sighed. “At least, I think I still am.”

“Wow. You make life in the private sector sound like a complete nightmare.” George grinned. “Where do I sign up?”

“Depends. Are you really going to arrest me?”

George shrugged, surveying the scene. “As long as you can convince me this is exactly what it looks like, and the family backs you up, we can probably cut you loose. The sheriff is thrilled to have something to nail these jerks with, so that’s a bonus. But I can’t vouch for the Benicia P.D. They might still be touchy about you taking off with their star witness.”

“About that.” Jake lowered his voice. “I’m not sure it’s over.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

“The husband originally hired us, and now he’s missing. We still haven’t figured out who snatched the girl, and every time we get her back, someone tries to grab her again.”

“Shit, Jake.” George rubbed his eyes with one hand. “And here I thought I might actually get to go home. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

K
elly flipped over again and punched her pillow. Typical cheap motel-issue, the down kept separating until she was lying on nothing but pillowcase. She folded it double, but even then it only offered a small rise from the surface of the bed. She sighed. Sunlight was still leaking through the curtains and around the door. It was only eight o’clock, but she had gone to bed early to make up for the night before. Unfortunately her body clock was thrown off by all the traveling, and sleep was evading her.

Rodriguez didn’t appear to be having any trouble—she could hear him snoring through the paper-thin walls. They were in a Motel 6 a few miles from the Houston field office. That afternoon they’d been moved progressively farther away from the warehouse as a multitude of hazardous material response units descended and expanded the perimeter. An ASAC Leonard from the Weapons of Mass Destruction Unit had shown up, face grave. For an hour he grilled her on every detail of their investigation. He was clearly dubious of the Jackson Burke link, but noted it down. And she hadn’t been able to get any answers on when her dead John Doe would be
processed. It was frustrating. For all intents and purposes this was her crime scene, but she’d been squeezed out of the loop. They were practically treating her like a civilian.

Finally, irritated by the vague responses and brush-offs, Kelly had conceded defeat. At a local Denny’s she’d picked at a sandwich while Rodriguez tore through a stack of pancakes, then they’d checked into the motel. ASAC Leonard had promised to call as soon as he knew anything. Kelly checked her phone again, resisting the temptation to throw it against the wall when it showed
No new calls.

The stilted exchange with Jake still bothered her, too. They were supposed to be getting married, but the past few weeks they’d had a hard time getting through a five-minute phone conversation. She tried to tell herself that a lot of couples weren’t great on the phone. But the truth was over the past year and a half, they had spent more time on the phone than in person, and this strain was new.

Maybe it was the cases they were working on. This one was getting under her skin, and she was always distracted when that happened. And it sounded like Jake was having a similar experience. He usually shared every detail of his day-to-day activities. It was odd to have that suddenly shut off. She could tell he was constantly searching for things to say that wouldn’t violate someone’s privacy. But if this was how things would be once his business was up and running, how would they handle it? She pictured them sitting in silence at the dinner table every night, occasionally saying, “Please pass the salt.” And a second later realized that after her brother was murdered when she was eight years old, that was exactly how family dinners were at her house. The thought of returning to that was awful to contemplate.

Kelly threw off the covers, flicked on the television and tuned to CNN. An image of Jackson Burke appeared on-screen, and she turned up the volume.

“…honored to be asked to serve the great state of Arizona in this time of terrible need. The murder of my good friend Duke Morris by a criminal gang of illegal immigrants aptly shows the danger he fought against his entire career. Our borders remain porous, thanks to a president and congress who are unwilling to stem the tide of violent offenders for whom it’s become a virtual highway for drugs, weapons and prostitutes. These are the people putting needles in your kids’ hands. These are the people ruining communities with drug wars and drive-by shootings. They’re stealing our jobs, and in the process our nation. I pledge to continue Duke’s work, devoting myself fully to…”

Kelly dialed the volume back down, irritated by the flood of rhetoric. What was Burke’s game? Could he really have been involved in Morris’s murder? He’d ideally positioned himself to assume the Senate seat. If Burke had run against Duke Morris in an election, they were like-minded enough to split the conservative vote, something the Arizona GOP wouldn’t have supported. Still, murdering a friend to steal his job was cold, and there weren’t any guarantees that Burke would be appointed. Morris’s wife could have taken office until the next election.

Kelly flashed back on her, an anxious woman whose hands fluttered as she spoke, and realized that was unlikely. Mrs. Morris didn’t appear stable enough for a spot on the PTA. And all the groups she’d run across in the past few days, from skinheads to Minutemen, shared an anti-immigration stance. Blaming an MS-13 offshoot for Morris’s murder had forced the immigration issue back into the national consciousness.

Kelly powered up her laptop and searched for information on Jackson Burke. There were numerous photos of him at fund-raising events, arm in arm with celebrities, politicians and business magnates. Also, the text of a few keynote addresses, one given at his alma mater and the others at business conferences. They were all fairly mundane, focused on the future of various industries, with no overt references to his immigration stance. Interesting that the GOP had chosen him to fill the seat. Granted he was a major fund-raiser, hosting events for candidates—including Duke Morris—at what the society pages termed his “palatial estate” in Scottsdale. But Burke hadn’t held any chairmanship positions or run for elected office prior to his appointment.

Kelly sat back and thought for a minute. Her stomach grumbled, chastising her for not eating more at dinner. She dialed Leonard again but was sent straight to voice mail, and she hung up without leaving a message. Kelly considered calling Jake, but decided not to. She knew it was childish, but the way he’d behaved, distracted, barely listening to her…he should be the one to call and make up for it.

Kelly powered down her computer and stretched her arms above her head, trying to ease the stiffness in her neck. After the pace of the past few days, it was strange to be stuck with nothing to do. She ran over the case again in her mind, and decided to make one last call.

Her friend Mark had left the Bureau for a job with the Southern Poverty Law Center a few years earlier. He’d said that he wanted to leave before all the idealism and faith in mankind was sucked out of him. At the time she figured he was being melodramatic, but he might have had the right idea. Maybe that was the problem, she’d overstayed her welcome.

After a few tries the switchboard routed her to an extension. She left a message for Mark, hung up, and was surprised when almost immediately her phone rang.

“Kelly! Can’t believe you called, it’s been years!” Mark said.

Kelly smiled. It was nice that someone actually sounded happy to hear from her. “Hi, Mark. Listen, I’m in the middle of a sticky case right now, and thought you might be able to help out.”

There was a pause. Mark’s tone had shifted when he said, “So much for catching up, huh?”

“No, I didn’t mean…How are you?” Kelly asked awkwardly.

Mark laughed. “It’s okay, Kelly. I should’ve known better, you’re not the type to call for a chat.”

Kelly wanted to protest, but he was right. Since Mark had left the Bureau she’d barely thought of him. And not only had they been close friends, they’d even briefly dated. She wondered what that said about her. “I’m really sorry, Mark.”

“No problem. So what’s going on?”

“I need to know more about different anti-immigration groups—skinheads, Aryan Brotherhood, Minutemen.”

“Technically these days we refer to them as hate groups,” he said. “And this is for a case, huh?”

“It is. Why?”

“There have been some interesting rumors flying around the Web lately. Nothing too serious, but the chatter has definitely ticked up on some of the sites we monitor. One guy made a reference to something big brewing, and immediately got flamed by everyone else.”

“And that’s not normal?”

“The big claims are, but the flaming was surprising.” Mark sounded pensive. “Usually they love to get each other
all riled up, kind of feeding off the hate. But they clamped down on this, went so far as to call the guy a liar and a troublemaker. Pretty out of character for that site. Made me think there might really be something in the works.”

Kelly flashed back on the blue powder. “Could any of the groups you monitor pull off something major?”

“Hard to say. Back in the nineties, a few redneck Klansmen almost succeeded in blowing up a natural gas processing plant in Texas. If one of them hadn’t got cold feet and gone to the Bureau, the explosion could have taken out hundreds, maybe thousands of people.” She heard the sound of typing in the background. “Can you tell me why you asked about those groups specifically?”

Kelly weighed what she could say without compromising the investigation. “There might be a connection between some ex-con Aryan Brotherhood members and some of the border militia guys.”

“Crap. That’s not good. What people don’t realize is that while hate groups have doubled their membership in the past decade, you people,” Mark’s voice turned harsh as he said, “have completely dropped the ball.”

“I’m sure that’s not true—” Kelly protested.

“It is,” Mark interrupted. “The attack on 9/11 initiated a complete reallocation of resources. Now you ignore the domestic militias we were all so afraid of in the nineties, instead it’s all about foreign nationals on our soil. When the truth is, we’re more likely to see another Oklahoma City before another twin towers.”

“Why has the membership doubled?” Kelly asked, trying to refocus him. That was one thing she’d forgotten about Mark, he went from zero to rage in seconds flat.

“Anti-immigration has been the great unifier,” Mark said, catching himself. His voice was more controlled as he continued, “And the Internet made finding like-minded
recruits a hell of a lot easier. The good news is that, by and large, these people are all talk. They love to rant and rave, but when it comes down to actually doing anything about it, most of them are too disorganized.”

“But?” Kelly asked.

“But what we worry about is the possibility of someone smart and charismatic bringing all these disparate groups together.”

“Like an American version of Osama bin Laden?”

“Exactly like that.” Mark spoke in a rush, excited. “Imagine survivalists, skinheads and Minutemen. All heavily armed, all willing to fight. It would be like your own personal mercenary army. And if you had money to back it up, well…”

“Well?” Kelly asked when he didn’t continue.

“Let’s just say it would be really, really bad. People take for granted the stability of our country, but the truth is there isn’t a nation on the planet completely immune to a coup attempt. Given the right circumstances, someone could seize power and overthrow the Constitution.”

“That sounds a little far-fetched,” Kelly said.

“Does it? In the last decade alone there have been more than thirty coup attempts worldwide. Thirteen of those succeeded. Our government has only been in power for two-hundred years, not long at all in the grand scheme of things. The Romans ruled in one form or another for nearly a thousand years, and look what happened to them. And the people assigned to defend us, the National Guard and most of our military units, are currently overseas. At the moment, the United States has a very limited homeland defense.”

“Still…” Kelly tried to think of an appropriate response. Much of what he was saying was true, but the
thought of a bunch of skinheads taking over the government still sounded preposterous.

“Still nothing. All it would take was some sort of cataclysmic event to coalesce people. Remember that 9/11 could very well have gone another way. Rather than rallying behind the president, people could have blamed him for not keeping the nation safe. And imagine the outcome if that had happened, and people took to the streets.”

“You were born in the wrong era, Mark. Should’ve been a ’60s radical,” Kelly teased.

His voice lost some enthusiasm as he said, “Maybe you’re right. I know you can’t tell me much, but please, if you learn anything…”

“I’ll call. And, Mark, let’s keep this between us, all right?”

He hesitated before saying, “All right. But if things are in motion, I expect a phone call.”

“Definitely.” Kelly hung up and thought about what he’d said. She turned back to her laptop and enlarged a photo of Jackson Burke. He was wearing a tuxedo, the portrait of well-fed contentment, mouth half-open in a laugh. “An American bin Laden, huh?” she said, examining it. “You don’t look like someone who’d enjoy spending time in a cave.”

Madison sat next to Bree’s hospital bed, picking at her cuticles. Ironic that twenty-four hours earlier Bree had been sitting beside her. The guy who gave her first aid was right, Bree would be fine. She had conked out while they were bandaging her arm. Madison envied her. She’d never been so tired in her entire life, but every time her head nodded she jerked awake. It would probably be a while before she slept through the night again, if ever.

The doctors had examined her leg and changed the cast
since it got beat-up during their escape. Her lungs had checked out fine, too, although they felt tight from the smoke. The nurse said that would probably go away in a day or two.

Madison glanced at the door. Her mother was talking to one of the FBI agents. For some reason she felt less safe having them as guards. The commando-boys had been scary, but that made them seem more effective. Her mother had her arms crossed over her chest and was examining the floor tiles, nodding occasionally while the agent explained something. She looked old, Madison suddenly realized. Her mother used to be so pretty, back when she and Dad were still together.

The agent left and her mother remained there for a moment. She turned to find Madison watching her and suddenly straightened, forcing a weak smile.

“Any news about Dad?” Madison asked, as her mother leaned in and smoothed the covers over Bree.

“Not yet, sweetie. But they’re checking planes and trains to see if they can track him down. I’m sure he’s fine.”

She can’t even make that sound believable,
Madison thought. It was just like when she told Madison they’d never get divorced. Then three months later, boom. “What about his credit cards? Are they checking those?”