“Must make it complicated for you now.”
Snell pursed her lips. “Not really. You’re out and you’re trying to help my friend. Word is you’re a man who can fix things. Maybe you can fix things for me, too.”
“How?”
“I’ll let you know. That trust thing.” She turned her attention back to the box and pulled files. Jake studied her for a moment and followed suit.
* * *
After an hour, Jake and Snell finished their first two boxes and were two files short of finishing the third. The FBI labeled the files with a sequential number and a two- or three-word description of its contents. Most of the documentation contained background reports and state filings for Blue Heron—business license information, state environmental reports, a couple of OSHA safety citations for failing to train forklift drivers, newspaper clippings. There were some on-site surveillance reports from Walters and Riesenberg full of nauseating detail of the comings and goings of trucks and visitors to the plant.
Some of the folders contained surveillance photos. Snell thumb-tacked them on a corkboard on the office wall, assigning names when they could cross reference them from the files.
“Why was the FBI investigating Blue Heron in the first place?” Jake asked as they worked at the back of the file box. “I can’t find anything in these boxes we couldn’t have found in the public library or on the Internet.”
Snell tossed the file she held into the box, sat in her chair and slumped. “This is nothing but background. All the good stuff is in the computer files. There’s nothing here, which is probably why they didn’t bother to scan them in and destroy the physical files. There’s not even a hint of what Walters and Riesenberg were looking for. Damn.”
Jake read the number and name on the last file. Something red-flagged in his mind as he removed it from the box. He let the thought try to work its way to the surface, but it scurried away.
“What?” Snell asked.
“Nothing. Let’s see what’s in the last folder.”
The last file in the box contained more pictures from the surveillance showing several additions to the Blue Heron building over the years and various close up shots of people. He laid the pictures side by side on her office table.
Snell picked up a long-distance photo of a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit. He had a thick head of combed-back, white hair and stood by a black Tahoe, blue-suited security on either side. She regarded it and thumb-tacked it above the other pictures on the corkboard.
“Looks like a politician,” Jake said. “Who is it?”
“Wyatt Drabek. President and CEO of Blue Heron. That’s the chicken scratch signature you’ve seen on those documents.”
“What do we know about him?”
She tossed the picture on the table and flipped through a notepad. “Started the company fifteen years ago after he sold some medical software he created to Microsoft for a lot of money. Wanted to get into the pharmaceutical industry. From the Blue Heron tax records, looks like he landed profitable contracts with a few medium-sized pharma manufacturers. Must have been pretty good contracts because he expanded the plant twice in those last fifteen years. His tax returns show at least three million a year personal earnings. Divorced five years ago. Has a hundred-acre property south of town. Ran for the Kansas State Senate a few years back but lost in a close race. Was set to run again but pulled out.”
“Does the file say why?”
“Must not have had the numbers to win.”
Numbers. Jake went back to the files at his feet. The labels on the folders began with a two-digit code, a hyphen and a four-digit number. Snell’s box had the two-digit code of 20, his were 21 and 22. Jake thumbed through the files, following the sequential numbers. Toward the end of the box, the files were 22-1100, 22-1101 before jumping to 22-1104. 22-1105 was the final file containing the pictures.
“There’s two files missing from this box,” Jake said. “Is there an index?”
Snell took a sheet from the front of the box. “What are the missing numbers?”
“22-1102 and 22-1103. Does it say what they were?”
“Says financial records.” She handed Jake the list. He scanned it and nodded.
“Wonder why they’re gone? Can we talk to Walters and…what was the other guy’s name?”
“Riesenberg, and it’s a she,” Snell said. “I could try and track them down. See if they remember anything.”
She didn’t sound hopeful or excited about the prospect. Then again, they were both spent. Jake sent Bear a text letting him know he’d be back soon. His blurred, sleep-deprived eyes read 2 A.M. on Snell’s desk clock. Way past his bedtime, and he couldn’t drink any more of the FBI’s nasty coffee. They’d combed through hundreds of documents and pictures and came up with nothing other than two missing files. The vertebrae in his back crunched like granola as he stood and stretched. As he turned to leave, something in the picture of Drabek posted on the corkboard caught his eye.
The man on Drabek’s right was the same guy patrolling the grounds at Blue Heron a couple days ago. The man on the left was the dead guy from the condo when he’d first chased after Voleski. The mystery man with the screaming girl cell phone. He said nothing to Snell.
Chapter Twenty-One
Weariness spread like a ravenous cancer through Stanton’s bones as he huddled in the doorway across the street from the apartment of Voleski’s girlfriend. Devaroux returned with two more cups of coffee from the diner around the corner. Two hours ago, the lights in the apartment went dark and there’d been no sign of life. They surmised the girl went to bed, so they moved to the comfort of their car parked a half block away.
“You checked on our girl at headquarters lately?” Devaroux asked.
Stanton yawned loud and wide. “Sleeping soundly. Like we should be at two in the morning.”
“What the hell are we going to do with her? We can’t keep her there forever.”
“Not our call, man. I’m doing what I’m told.”
Stanton’s cell rang. It was Mitchell Young.
“Good morning, Senator,” Stanton said, straightening in his seat.
“Did you get what you were after?”
“Did I call you and tell you I did?”
“Obviously not.”
“Then we obviously don’t have it.”
“Don’t get smart with me, mister,” Young said.
Stanton pressed his fingers against his throbbing temple. “Forgive me if I’m a little short, Senator, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’ve been standing in a cold, dark doorway staring at a building for the last six hours.”
“You spent ten times longer lying in the sand in Afghanistan. Why do you think I put you at Blue Heron?”
“Maybe I’m getting old,” Stanton said. “What can I do for you?”
“I just got the word. The meeting is set for midnight tonight. You can’t show up empty-handed, so you have exactly twenty-two hours to get what I want. The consequences of your failure will be dire, Mr. Stanton. Very dire. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Stanton said. The Senator clicked off without a further word. Stanton gave his phone the middle finger and tossed it on the dash.
“Well?” Devaroux asked.
“We have until midnight to get the case.”
“If we don’t?”
“You better hope your life insurance premiums are paid up.”
* * *
Bear slept on the couch, head back and jaw hanging open, snoring like a broken chainsaw when Jake entered at two-thirty in the morning. He picked up a yellow legal pad from the coffee table and thumbed through the pages, but he couldn’t read much of Bear’s sloppy handwriting. Bear shifted on the couch and cracked open an eye.
“What time is it?” Bear asked.
“After two. You get my texts?”
With the grace of a drunken toddler, Bear rolled to a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes with his massive palms and shook his head to
clear the cobwebs. “About the agents? Yeah. Hannah Riesenberg is in the Des Moines, Iowa field office. Got some contact info. Greg Walters moved to Washington. Retired. Can’t find anything immediate on him.”
“You got that info fast.”
“Gave up on finding anyone with half a brain cell so I called my buddy and woke his ass up. He might as well earn that hefty government paycheck. Who are they?”
“Agents investigating Blue Heron.”
“They work for the same agency as Snell,” Bear said, pressing to his feet and shuffling to the bathroom. A few seconds later, Jake confirmed Bear didn’t close the door. Bear returned wiping his hands on a towel. At least he washed up after.
“Why didn’t you get the numbers from her?” Bear asked.
“Because she’s still not telling us everything. I suggested she call them, and she dragged ass about it. You’d think she’d jump on anything at this point.” Jake filled him in on the password-protected computer files, the two missing hardcopy files, Drabek and the dead guy from the photo. “I didn’t tell her I recognized the dead guy because I don’t entirely trust her.”
Bear returned to the couch and crushed whatever resiliency was left in the old cushions. “Walters may be a bust, but this Riesenberg is still working the circuit. Think she can fill in some blanks?”
Jake yawned. “I hope so. You find out anything else from your guy?”
“Yeah. I think I found out what Ares is more or less. My guy swore me to secrecy. He actually threatened to cut my dick off if I told anyone it came from him.”
“Good thing I don’t know who he is,” Jake said. “Your wife would be mighty disappointed.”
“Hell, she might thank him. Anyway, ten years ago the Department of Defense received a ton of funding to develop a new missile defense system called the Omega Defense Initiative.”
“ODI,” Jake said, scooting to the edge of his chair. “I remember the scuttlebutt. They spent billions and scrapped the project. There were Senate hearings on it five years ago.”
Bear whistled. “So you’re not just a dumb leg-breaker. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Was stuck in a car tracking a scumbag for Keats and the radio only had A.M. Nothing but talk radio on.”
“Well, according to my guy, they never really scrapped it, and it didn’t work because they weren’t really working on a missile defense system. It was something else under the table.”
Lines appeared in Jake’s forehead. “Seriously?”
Bear drained the last of a beer that sat on the coffee table. “The ODI was a front. The DoD was freaking out about biological weapons, worried they might be used on our troops. They wanted some kind of vaccine to shield our soldiers from the effects of chemical weapons used by the bad guys. Something happened in the development, something bad, but nobody will talk about it. The under-the-table project was called Ares.”
“What exactly does it do?”
“Beats me,” Bear said. “My guy wouldn’t tell me anything else other than to forget what I heard and where I heard it from. Said even he didn’t know exactly what it does. You think this Riesenberg would have a clue?”
The promise of sleep drew at Jake’s eyelids. “I doubt it. But, one of the few wise things my old man ever said was when in doubt about the source of a problem, follow the money. Riesenberg might be able to lead us to the money. Let’s grab some shuteye. We’ll call her in the morning.”
Bear lay back on the couch. Jake turned off the light and headed to his bedroom. A minute later, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, various pieces of information swirling around in his head like trash in a whirlwind. A United States Senator, Keats the mob boss, a mysterious group of Russians, Drabek’s security guys, and who knew who else were after the silver briefcase. Who knew who worked for who? They were a little closer to finding out what Ares was and why people were willing to kill to get their hands on it. Jake hoped he and Bear didn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jake woke at seven in the morning, a full four hours of sleep under his belt. He required at least six hours to be semi-functional. His groggy brain pleaded with him to roll over and fall back into the dream of Maggie in a bikini on a boat in the middle of Truman Lake. But there were too many things to do. The living room was dark, the light from the rising morning sun hitting the opposite side of the building, Bear still out cold on the couch.
Jake grabbed Bear’s notepad and headed back to the bedroom. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand and leaned against the headboard. The indecipherable notes read like Bear had a severe case of Parkinson’s. He managed to weed his way through the scribbles and find the name of Hannah Riesenberg with a phone number starting with a Des Moines area code.
She answered on the third ring. An early bird in the office. Jake explained the situation of the missing files, a beat-up Logan, and asked her what she knew about Blue Heron. He knew it was a phone call with little chance of success. A federal agent wouldn’t give information out to a complete stranger, but he hoped she held a warm spot in her heart for Logan. As predicted, she told him she couldn’t give out such information on the phone.
Then, she surprised him. “If you happen to be in the Des Moines area, a face-to-face meeting could be arranged. Some things are better discussed in person.”
Jake did a quick calculation. Des Moines was a little under three hours from Kansas City. He and Bear could get there by ten if they left right away. Jake arranged for a ten-thirty meeting at the field office, giving him a half-hour to roust Bear from his slumber.
Back in the living room, he tapped Bear on his socked feet. Bear cracked open his eyes and scowled.
“Off your ass and on your feet, big boy,” Jake said. “Road trip.”
“Where to?”
“Des Moines. Just set a meeting with Agent Riesenberg.”
Bear struggled to a sitting position. “She said she’d meet with us? What did you tell her?”
“Gave her the basics. She wouldn’t discuss anything over the phone.”
Bear yawned wide and loud. “She shouldn’t discuss anything at all. Jesus, I’m tired.”
“Well, get up. I played the Logan Got His Ass Kicked card pretty heavy. She said she’d meet us so we’re going. I’ll buy you coffee on the way out of town.”
“All right, all right. Do I have time to take a piss?”
“And run a brush through your mane. You look like a fucking lion that stuck its paw in a light socket.”
Bear growled. “Don’t push your luck, Caldwell.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they headed north up I-35 toward Des Moines. Heavy traffic crawled the opposite way into downtown, but Jake’s path was clear. The day was gray and overcast with moisture-laden clouds trudging along a brisk easterly wind. Bear grumbled, but his edge slipped away with a coffee and a couple Egg McMuffins.
“You calling Snell and telling her where we’re going?” Bear asked.
Jake rubbed the faint stubble on his jaw line. “No. I picked up the vibe from Riesenberg she wanted to keep this low profile. Bringing another agent into the mix could complicate things. Why don’t you check on Logan?”
Bear dialed Truman Medical Center from his cell and, after a few transfers, talked to the nurse. “No change. Docs are getting a little worried he hasn’t come out of it yet.”
“You worried?”
“Hell, yeah,” Bear said. “And every minute he’s out makes me more pissed off at the guys who did this to him. Somebody’s getting an ass whuppin’. You tell Maggie what you’re doing?”
Jake blew out. “In vague terms. She knows I’m going after the guys that beat up Logan, but not all this other shit.”
“So, you lied to her?”
“I omitted certain facts. It’s not the same as lying.”
Bear grunted. “I think that ninety-nine percent of the women in this country would beg to differ.”
“You’re reading too many of your wif
e’s Cosmopolitans.”
“She keeps hiding my Playboys and there’s nothing else to read in the john. So, when you going to pull the trigger with Maggie?”
“What trigger?”
Bear waved his fingers. “The ring and marriage trigger.”
“Like she’d say yes.”
“Dude, she’d say yes before you finished asking.”
“I don’t deserve her,” Jake said, his features clouding.
“Oh, fuck you and your self-pitying bullshit, Caldwell,” Bear said. “If anyone deserves a great woman like Maggie, it’s you.”
“We’ve only been back together for six months.”
“But you spent a lifetime together even when you were apart.”
Jake side-eyed Bear. “Now I definitely know you’ve been reading too much Cosmo. At what point do I get to stop doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Dealing with chaos. How can I drag her into this? I mean, I worked for the mob, saved my kidnapped daughter and girlfriend from the clutches of a drug lord, and now I’m right back in the shit.”
Bear put in a dip of tobacco and spit into an empty water bottle. “You like being in the shit.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do. Look, what else are you gonna do? Sit behind a desk and sell fucking insurance? Schlep away at the lumber yard with your douchebag brother-in-law? Being in the shit is in your DNA, man.”
Jake rubbed the steering wheel. Thoughts of Maggie and Halle bouncing in his head. “What if I can’t protect them from it?”
“You will. Life’s full of shit, Jake.”
Jake laughed. “You are a poet and don’t even know it.”
“I’m serious. Life is a big, giant bucket of steaming diarrhea that we’re all wading through. If you’re going to do it, might as well do it with someone you love. So, get out of your own head and put a ring on that sweetheart’s finger.”
Jake Caldwell Thrillers Page 37