Ultimate Betrayal (9 page)

David shook his head. “Then why not go after Gino? He’s not that well protected.”

Peter rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“My body can’t do most of the things it could do years ago, but my mind’s intact, and I can still shoot a pistol or rifle. The Army taught me well.”

“That was a long time ago,” David said.

“It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget.” Peter sighed. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I’m here for you. I’ll watch your back. Don’t treat me like some decrepit old codger. And don’t ever question my love.”

David’s voice broke when he said, “Dad, I won’t rest until I find out who killed my family.” He then coughed to clear his throat. “I can come up with all sorts of reasons why you should stay out of this, but I know you won’t listen. So, I accept your help. And your love. But on one condition. I have final say on all decisions.”

By the time Toney arrived at his D.C. apartment, his headache had become intense. He placed a call to Rolf Bishop as soon as he had the chance to grab a beer and sit down. He hoped Bishop wouldn’t answer, but after the third ring Bishop’s distinctive, commanding voice came over the line.

“What?”

Toney wasn’t about to tell Bishop he’d blown another chance to eliminate Hood. “I followed him from the cemetery to I-95. He and an older man seemed to be headed toward Pennsylvania. I lost them near the Pennsylvania border. Maybe you can get me information on whether Hood has family there.” Toney heard Bishop exhale.

“I’ll call you back,” Bishop said, and hung up.

APRIL 16

CHAPTER 11

Out of the blue, Chicago Detective Dennis Aloysius O’Neil succumbed to the nostalgia bug. One day, nine years after he left the Marine Corps, he wondered about the members of the Marine unit he’d served with in Afghanistan. He’d periodically thought about his old comrades, about getting together with them, but this time he was motivated to do something about it. He’d heard and read about Marine Corps reunions. He decided to try to organize one.

O’Neil called the Marine Personnel Office in the Naval Department at the Pentagon and was connected to a Gunnery Sergeant Sam Collins.

“Gunney, my name is Dennis O’Neil. I’m a Chicago detective and served in the Marines. I’d like to organize a reunion of my old unit from Afghanistan. The unit was there from 2003 to 2005. But I don’t have names and addresses.”

“I get a lot of that,” Collins said. “Lot of guys want to get back together. I’d be happy to help. Give me your Marine ID number, your old unit designation number, and contact information. I’ll pull up a list of all the men who served in your unit.”

“How long will it take?”

“About a minute. Computers are amazing. I’m going to put you on hold.”

Collins came back on the line a little over a minute later.

“There were a total of three hundred fifty-seven names on the list. Of that number, forty-six left Afghanistan in coffins and another twenty-five died in Veterans Hospitals from wounds suffered in combat, or from illnesses. Another twelve died from other causes—car wrecks, suicides, one drowning, etc. The addresses I have for most of the men were those recorded in their files as of their dates of separation from the Marine Corps.”

“Thanks, Gunney.”

O’Neil sent invitations to the members of his unit and within five days received a few responses. He heard from men thrilled about the reunion. Some invitations came back “No Longer at This Address,” “Address Unknown,” or “No Forwarding Address.” Three letters arrived from widows in Anaheim, California; Belen, New Mexico; and Wildwood, New Jersey. Each expressed sorrow that her husband would be unable to join his old friends because he had been killed within the past month.

Thirty-four-year-old Dennis O’Neil had become a cop, then a detective with the Chicago Police Department after he left the Marines. He was a good cop for a variety of reasons. He was honest, had a tremendous work ethic, and cared about what he did. He had excellent instincts. And he didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Damn, that makes three.”

“What makes three?” Detective Joji Kimura asked.

“Sorry, Joji. I didn’t realize I said it out loud. You know I’ve been working on this reunion for my old Marine unit. Well, three of the guys who were in the unit were all murdered in the last few weeks.”

“Sounds like a coincidence to me. And I know how much you believe in coincidences.”

O’Neil laid the three widows’ letters side-by-side on the table in front of him and re-read them. The women had said their husbands were
killed
. Not that they had died. They’d been
killed
. Three murders of former Marines from the same unit in a 30-day period seemed too much coincidence for a career cop with a sixth sense.

CHAPTER 12

Bethesda Detective Jennifer Ramsey had heeded her father’s advice since she’d joined the Bethesda Police Department. She’d kept her mouth shut, even when confronted with the worst sort of misogyny and outright malice. But she couldn’t anymore. She knew Roger Cromwell was an experienced homicide detective, but there was no question in her mind he was way off base about David Hood. There was no way Hood would murder his own family. And there was no evidence he had. She fidgeted in her chair as Cromwell laid out his theory on the Hood case for Mickey Croken, the Chief of Detectives.

“. . . and it’s too much of a coincidence. Hood’s down in the bomb shelter when the explosion happens. Give me a break!”

Croken glanced at Ramsey and knitted his brows. “What the hell’s your problem, detective. You got ants in your pants?”

“No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I mean—”

“What are you trying to say?” Cromwell interrupted.

Croken gave Cromwell a stern look and turned back to Ramsey.

Ramsey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She glanced at Cromwell. “With all due respect to my partner,” she said, “I don’t think there’s any way in hell Hood would murder his wife and kids. The more we focus on him, the less attention we put on finding the real killer.”

Cromwell laughed. “What do you base that on, female intuition?”

Jennifer had had enough of Cromwell’s bullshit. “That’s a better basis for Hood’s innocence than the trumped up nonsense you’re spewing.”

Cromwell’s eyes looked as though they’d pop out of their sockets. His already florid face reddened to the shade of a ripe tomato.

“There was no insurance on the wife or the kids,” Jennifer continued. “Hood’s business is so successful he can’t spend what he makes, and every person we talked to told us the guy was the best father and husband they’d ever seen. Straight arrow all the way. Two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star earned in Afghanistan. We got nothing that points at Hood as the killer. He’s a victim, not a criminal.”

Jennifer felt as though she’d just finished a marathon. She was exhausted from tension. But she felt good at the same time. She looked at Cromwell, who glared back at her. When she shifted her gaze to Croken, she was rewarded with a smile.

“Roger, I tend to agree with Jennifer,” Croken said. “I want you to focus on other angles, other suspects.”

Cromwell looked stunned. His face was still crimson and his mouth hung open as though he’d been poleaxed. “Hood is another one of those maniacs being manufactured by the military. The Army trains these guys to be stone-cold killers and then turns them loose on America’s streets. Mark my words, that sonofabitch murdered his wife and kids.”

Croken looked from Cromwell to Ramsey and said, “I’ve made my decision. You’re excused. I expect some progress on this case, or I’ll have to assign other detectives to it.”

Cromwell shot to his feet and stormed from the office. Ramsey stood and turned to leave the office.

“Detective,” Croken said.

Ramsey turned back to her boss. “Yes, sir?”

“I know Cromwell’s a Neanderthal and a royal pain in the ass. But you might want to slip him a little slack. His teenage daughter was murdered by a vet with PTSD who went on a shooting rampage. He’s got a blind spot when it comes to military vets.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Chief.”

Ramsey felt even more uncomfortable about Cromwell after what Croken had just told her. The guy could be a loose cannon out on the streets. But she decided to try to mend things with her partner, anyway. She walked over to where he stood a few yards away from Croken’s office.

Cromwell growled, “I want to talk to you.” He walked past his and Ramsey’s desks and entered an empty interrogation room. He kicked a metal folding chair against a wall, slammed the door behind Ramsey, and drilled her with the most hateful look she’d ever seen. He stepped to within inches of her and jabbed the center of her chest with one of his sausage-sized fingers.

“You made me look bad in there, Ramsey,” Cromwell hissed. “You’ll pay for that. I promise you.”

Ramsey slapped the man’s hand away and, her voice laden with venom, said, “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

“Or what?” Cromwell laughed. “The only thing you women are good for is sex.” He then shot out one of his enormous hands and jabbed one of her breasts.

Mickey Croken breathed an enormous sigh. For the first time all day no one knocked on his door and his telephone didn’t ring. He reached over toward his inbox to work on the files accumulated there, when the sound of breaking glass propelled him from his chair and out of his office. Detectives had already assembled outside the door to one of the interrogation rooms. Shards of mirrored glass littered the floor outside the room. Croken pushed his way through the crowd and stopped at the open doorway. His first instinct was to laugh, but quickly suppressed it.

Jennifer Ramsey stood over a prone Roger Cromwell, flat on his belly on the floor. Ramsey had his left arm twisted behind his back in a hold Croken guessed was quite painful.

“What’s going on?” Croken demanded.

“Uh,” Ramsey said, “Roger asked me to show him a judo hold. I guess I just got carried away.”

“Is that right, Cromwell?” Croken asked.

By this time, Ramsey had released Cromwell. He turned over and slowly got up, rubbed his shoulder. Cromwell glared at the half-dozen faces around him.

“Yeah,” Cromwell said. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

One of the cops standing around said, “Yeah, right!”

“What the hell happened to the window?” Croken demanded.

Ramsey shrugged. Cromwell just stood there and looked stupid.

“All right, everybody,” Croken ordered. “Let’s get back to work.”

While the crowd dispersed, Ramsey whispered to Cromwell, “I’ve put up with your crap long enough. You don’t want me as your partner. Fine. Request reassignment. But you step out of line with me just once and I’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges so fast you won’t be able to get a job as a rent-a-cop.”

Cromwell babbled something unintelligible, then spat, “Fuck you!” and left the room.

CHAPTER 13

When his cellphone rang, Toney was parked on an unlighted dirt lane a half-mile from an exit off I-95. Already a little spooked by the lack of visibility due to the darkness and rain, his ringing telephone made him jump. When he answered, his voice was higher than normal.

“Well, what have you done today to earn your pay? Maybe I should guess. I suspect nothing! Absolutely nothing.”

Toney couldn’t come up with a response, nor did he trust his voice.

Bishop then said, “David Hood’s father, Peter, lives in Philadelphia. Write down this address.”

Bishop read off the address. “I’m losing patience,” Bishop said. “I don’t think you want to disappoint me.”

Bishop hung up before Toney could clear the lump in his throat.

Seated in his Georgetown home office, Bishop reflected on how efficiently he’d eliminated the other members of his Afghanistan unit. The job had turned out to be smaller than he’d anticipated. Three of the fourteen men had been killed in Afghanistan after serving with the SLSD, two had died in car accidents years ago, and of course, Campbell had been killed in New York in 2004. One call to the assassin who went by the code name Paladin was all it took. He’d needed a real pro; a killer of unparalleled talent. Over the past month, the man had murdered seven of the eight remaining members of the Special Logistical Support Detachment. The seven were spread out all over the United States, mostly in the Mid-West and West. Bishop had assigned Montrose Toney to kill David Hood because Toney lived in D.C. and Hood lived in nearby Bethesda. He’d had a long-standing arrangement with Toney. He’d used the man for muscle jobs—to remove or scare off political opponents of men he supported, rough up business competitors, a couple arson jobs.

Bishop had no idea if any of the men, other than that prick Carbajal in New Mexico, ever had even an inkling of what he and Campbell had really been up to in Afghanistan, and he really didn’t care. To him, the men were merely loose ends to be eliminated. He knew the FBI had initiated extensive background checks on him the minute the President tapped him to fill in at the CIA. If he had any hope of Senate confirmation for the Deputy Director position, his record would have to come up clean. He also knew there was only a slim chance any member of his old unit would be interviewed. But he couldn’t take the chance even one of them would raise any doubts about his past. What if one of them, in addition to Carbajal, had known he and Campbell had swapped stolen U.S. weapons and ammunition to tribal groups for narcotics? Or that they had shipped drugs to the States in caskets.

All it would take was one man being asked, “Do you know anything in Rolf Bishop’s past that might make him ineligible to be in a sensitive government position?”, and the man answering, “Well-l-l, I once heard someone say . . . .”

With the removal of Hood, Bishop would have only one other man to dispose of: Montrose Toney. He would be the last person alive who could tie him to any of the murders. Paladin wasn’t a problem—he’d been hired at arm’s length. The assassin had no idea who had employed him. Besides, the man was a professional who did “wet work” for whoever could pay his price.