The Lion's Game (72 page)

“Yeah. How can you tell?”

“Wild guess. I was NYPD. Homicide. I’m double-dipping.”

“I was a patrolman in the One-Oh-Six in Queens. Lots of NYPD down here, working and retired. I’m a Deputy Sheriff. Funny, right?”

“Hey, I might join you.”

“They love NYPD here. They think we know what we’re doing.” He laughed.

So, the bonding over, I said to him, “Tell me about the murder.”

“Okay. It took place in the victim’s house. Home office. Monday. Coroner put the time of death about noon, but the air conditioner was on, so maybe earlier. Body discovered at about eight-fifteen P.M. by us, acting on a tip from a woman named Stacy Moll. She’s a private pilot who flew a customer from Jacksonville Municipal Airport to the victim’s home. The house is on an airstrip in this fly-in community called Spruce Creek, outside of Daytona Beach. The customer said he had business with the deceased.”

“Indeed he did.”

“Right. So this customer tells the lady pilot his name is Demitrious Poulos, an antiques dealer from Greece, but afterward, this woman sees this photo in the newspaper, and she thinks her customer was this guy Asad Khalil.”

“She got that right.”

“Jesus. I mean, we thought she was hallucinating, but then we find this guy dead ... why’d Khalil want to whack this guy?”

“He has a thing about airplanes. I don’t know. What else?”

“Well, two gunshot wounds, one abdomen, one head. Also, the cleaning lady got it, single shot to the back of the head.”

“Did you recover slugs or shell casings?”

“Only the slugs. Three forty caliber.”

“Okay. I guess you notified the FBI.”

“Yeah. I mean, we didn’t actually believe the Asad Khalil thing, but that aside, the victim seemed to be involved in some sort of defense work, and there could be some computer disks missing, according to the victim’s girlfriend, who we located.”

“But did you report the possible Khalil connection to the FBI?”

“We did. To the Jacksonville field office. They informed us they were getting Asad Khalil sightings every fifteen minutes.” He added, “They didn’t take it too seriously, but said they’d send an agent down. Still waiting.”

“Right. So, after Spruce Creek, this lady pilot flew her customer where?”

“Back to Jacksonville Municipal, then drove him to Jacksonville International. The guy said he was flying back to Greece.”

I thought that over and asked, “Did you notify the Jacksonville PD?”

“Of course. You think I forgot everything I know? They checked out the airport, manifests, ticket sales, and all that, but no Demitrious Poulos.”

“Okay ... how long did the perp stay in the house with the victim?”

“The pilot said about half an hour.”

I nodded. I could almost re-create that conversation between Asad Khalil and Paul Grey.

I asked Sergeant Foley a few more questions and got a few more answers, but basically, that was it. Except that some FBI agents in Jacksonville were in deep shit, but they didn’t know it yet.
Asad Khalil sightings every fifteen minutes
. But this one was real. I didn’t know who Stacy Moll was, but I’d try to get her a few Federal bucks for good citizenship.

Deputy Foley asked me, “You closing in on this guy?”

“I think so.”

“This is one bad motherfucker.”

“Really.”

“Hey, how’s the weather in New York?”

“Perfect.”

“Fucking hot here. By the way, the lady pilot said her customer would be back next week. Made a reservation to fly back to Spruce Creek.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Right. She also made a dinner date with him.”

“Tell her she’s lucky to be alive.”

“Really.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and noted next to Paul Grey’s name, “murdered,” with the date and approximate time. That reunion just got smaller. In fact, maybe only Chip Wiggins would be there, unless Wiggins had moved east, and already had a visit from Asad Khalil. Bob Callum was still alive in Colorado, and I wondered if Khalil had left him alive because he knew the man was, according to Mrs. Hambrecht, very ill, or because Khalil simply hadn’t gotten to Colorado yet. And where was Wiggins? If we could save Wiggins’ life, that would be a small victory in a game where the score was Lion five, home team zip.

Kate came into the cubicle and sat at her desk. She said, “I stayed on the line with Mrs. Callum and held until she called the police and the Academy Provost Marshal on a second line. She said she has a gun and knows how to use it.”

“Good.”

“She said her husband was very ill. Cancer.”

I nodded.

“Do you think Khalil knows that?”

“I’m trying to figure out what he
doesn’t
know.” I said to her, “I called the Daytona Beach police. Paul Grey was murdered Monday, about noon, maybe earlier.”

“Oh, my God ...”

I told her all of what Deputy Sheriff Foley told me, then said, “The way I figure it, Khalil got in Jabbar’s taxi, did not go to McCoy’s museum on Long Island, but got out of the area, which was smart, went directly to Perth Amboy, whacked Jabbar, got in a waiting car, drove to D.C., stayed someplace, went to Waycliff’s house, whacked the General, his wife, and housekeeper, then somehow got to Jacksonville Municipal Airport, took a private plane to Spruce Creek, whacked Paul Grey and his cleaning lady, then flew back in the private plane to Jacksonville, then ... I guess went to Moncks Corner ... Satherwaite’s business address is a charter flying service, so Khalil charters Satherwaite’s plane with Satherwaite piloting, and they fly to Long Island for a reunion. Must have been an interesting flight. They get to Long Island, whack, whack, he does them both in the museum—in an F-111, no less, and also whacks the guard. Fucking incredible.”

Kate nodded. “And where did he go next? How did he leave Long Island?”

“I guess he could have flown out of MacArthur. It’s not international, so the security is not always tight. But maybe I see a pattern of private planes.”

“I think that may be it. So he may be flying to Colorado Springs, or to California in a private plane.” She added, “Most likely a jet.”

“Maybe. But maybe he wants to quit while he’s ahead, before he loses big-time, and he’s now on his way to Sandland.”

“We haven’t given him much reason to lead him to believe he can’t go for it all.”

“Good point.” I took a pencil and started adding up the known dead, not counting the gassed people on Flight 175. I said, “This guy is reducing the overpopulation on the East Coast.” I put down my pencil and read, “Andy McGill, Nick, Nancy, and Meg Collins, Jabbar, Waycliff, wife, and housekeeper, Grey and cleaning lady, Satherwaite, McCoy, and a guard. That’s unlucky thirteen.”

“Don’t forget Yusef Haddad.”

“Right. Scumbag accomplice. Fourteen. And today’s only Tuesday.”

Kate didn’t reply.

I handed her the fax sheets and said, “Except for Callum, who’s covered, Wiggins is the last guy who is—or might be—alive and not covered.”

She glanced at the fax sheets and asked me, “Did you try Wiggins?”

“Yeah. Phone disconnected. Let’s try to get him through Burbank directory information.”

She swiveled around and started banging away at her computer. “What’s his real first name?”

“I don’t know. See what you can do.”

“Call Counterterrorism in D.C. while I play with this. Then call the L.A. field office. Then notify everyone here in the ICC by e-mail, or whatever you think is the quickest.”

I didn’t exactly jump to it. I was trying to think faster than Khalil was killing people. The knish, mustard, sauerkraut, and red wine were churning in my tummy.

I didn’t see any immediate reason to alert my colleagues around me, or to alert Washington. I’d already established that four men were dead and didn’t need cover. Callum was alive and covered. That left the problem of finding Wiggins, which Kate and I were more than equipped to handle. I said to her, “I’m going to call the FBI field office in Los Angeles. Or do you want to make that call?”

“I would if you knew how to use the computer better. I’ll look for Wiggins.” She added, “Ask for a man named Doug Sturgis. He’s the Deputy Agent in Charge. Mention my name.”

“Right.” So I called the Los Angeles field office, identified myself as working with the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force, which usually gets people’s attention, and I asked for Doug Sturgis, who came on the line.

He asked me, “What can I do for you?”

I didn’t want to confuse the guy with facts, nor did I want him on the horn with Washington, but I wanted him to help. I said, “Mr. Sturgis, we’re looking for a male Caucasian named Chip Wiggins, first and middle name unknown, age about fifty, last known address is Burbank.” I gave him the last known and added, “He’s a possible witness in a high-profile case that might involve international terrorism.”

“What case is that?”

Why is everyone so nosy? I replied, “The case is sensitive and under wraps at this time, and I’m sorry I’m not at liberty to identify it right now, but Wiggins may know something we need to know. All I need is for you to look for him and take him into protective custody, and call me ASAP.” I gave him what little I had on Mr. Wiggins.

There was a silence, then Mr. Sturgis asked, “Who is targeting him? What group?”

“Let’s say Mideast. And it’s important that we find him before they find him. When I get more details, I’ll call back.”

Mr. Sturgis didn’t seem inclined to do my bidding, so I said, “I’m working with Kate Mayfield on this.”

“Oh.”

“She said you were the man to call for help.”

“All right. We’ll do what we can.” He repeated Wiggins’ last known address and phone number, and said, “Give Kate my regards.”

“Will do.” I gave him my and Kate’s direct dial numbers and said, “Thanks.” I hung up and dialed LAPD Missing Persons. I ID’ed myself, asked for and got a supervisor, a Lieutenant Miles. I went through my slightly evasive rap and added, “You guys can do a lot better job than we can in locating a missing person.”

Lieutenant Miles said, “This can’t be the FBI I’m talking to.”

I chuckled politely and informed him, “I used to be NYPD, Homicide. I’m here to teach basic law enforcement.”

He laughed. “Okay. If we find him, we’ll ask him to call you. That’s all I can do if he’s not a suspect in anything.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d escort him to your location. He’s in some danger.”

“Yeah? What kind of danger? Now we’re talking danger.”

“I’m talking national security, and that’s all I can say at this time.”

“Oh, now you’re a Fed again.”

“No, I’m a cop in a bind. I need this, and I can’t say why.”

“Okay. We’ll put his picture on a milk carton. You have a photo?”

I took a deep breath and said, “It’s not much of a photo, and it’s very old, and I don’t want posters in his old neighborhood either. We’re trying to catch the guy who’s trying to find him, not scare the guy off. Okay? By the way, I called the L.A. FBI office, an Agent Sturgis, and they’re working on this, too. Whoever finds him first gets a gold medal.”

“Wow. Why didn’t you say so? We’ll get right on it.”

Cops can be pains in the ass. “But seriously, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. I’ll work this one and give you a call.”

“Thanks.” I gave him my and Kate’s phone numbers.

“How’s the weather in New York?”

“Snow and ice.”

“Figures.” He hung up.

Kate looked up from her computer and said to me, “You didn’t have to be so secretive with our people, or with the LAPD.”

“I wasn’t secretive.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Well, it’s not important that they know
why
, it’s only important that they know
who
. Chip Wiggins is missing and needs to be found. That’s all they need to know.”

“They’d be more motivated if they knew
why
.”

She was right, of course, but I was trying to think like a cop and act like a Fed, and all this national security crap was getting to me.

Kate went back to her computer and said, “I’m not finding anything in any of the Burbank or L.A. area directories.”

“Tell the computer
why
you need to know.”

“Fuck off, John.” She added, “I am your boss. You’ll keep me informed and listen to me.”

Wow!
I replied, in my I’m-outta-here tone, “If you don’t like the way I’m handling this case, and you’re not happy with my results so far—”

“Okay. Sorry. I’m just a little tense and tired. I was up all night.” She smiled at me and winked.

I sort of smiled back. Ms. Mayfield had a tough side, too, and I’d be well advised to remember that. I said to her, “Sturgis says to say hello.”

She didn’t reply, but continued banging away at her computer and said, “This guy could have moved to Nome, Alaska, for all we know. I wish I had his Social Security number. Check your e-mail to see if we have any message from DoD or the Air Force regarding the personnel files of those eight guys.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I punched up my e-mail, but aside from a lot of interoffice stuff, there was nothing there. I said to Kate, “Now that we have some names, we can specifically ask the Air Force for the Wiggins file.”

“Right. I’ll do that.” She got on the phone, and I heard her making her way through some bureaucracy or another.

I said to no one in particular, “I hope Asad Khalil is having as much trouble finding Wiggins as we are.” I got into my computer and tried a few avenues on the Information Highway, including the Air Force Web site. There was an MIA and a KIA section, and incredibly I found Steven Cox, killed in the Gulf War. But there was no section called “Guys on Secret Missions.”

Kate put down her phone and announced, “It may take a while to get Wiggins’ file. The Chip thing threw them. They want his service number or Social Security number. That’s what
we
want.”