The first key I’d tried on the building door opened D’Amato’s apartment instead, and I brushed past the dangling ribbons of yellow tape festooned around the doorframe into the empty space inside. I did a slow turn, taking in the remains of a life. Nothing had changed in the few hours since I’d last seen it, furniture still in place, but even with things occupying real estate on the floor or the walls, it felt hollow as a cavern, soulless. A cipher had lived in this place, leaving nothing personal or indicative of his taste or style.
I started at the desk and went through the drawers. Bills were neatly stacked in a pile ready for payment. The file drawer contained receipts as far back as a year but no further. He hadn’t brought his work home, apparently, unless he kept digital files on his computer. And the cops had taken that. I checked the titles of the books on the shelves. His preferences had leaned toward dry tomes on physics—Hawking, Greene, Feynman, Kaku, deGrasse Tyson—and popular genre fiction, particularly thrillers and mysteries, including several authors on my list of favorites—Coben, Crais, Unger, Parker, Hallinan, Connelly, Hurwitz… I thumbed through several to assure myself he hadn’t hollowed them out and stuffed them with microfiche or cold cash. Too smart for that.
Heading for the bedroom next, I was struck again by the lack of anything personal in the apartment, especially any kind of family photos. The photos that did hang on walls were pretty scenes of nondescript locales—trees resplendent in full fall regalia of reds, yellows and oranges that could have been taken almost anywhere; a broad beach with grassy dunes sweeping down to the sand on one side and blue ocean on the other, a foamy wave breaking on shore. I stepped up to one and looked more closely. The stock photos were those that had come with the frames. He’d never bothered replacing them with anything else.
Both the dresser and closet contained the makings of a modest wardrobe, clothes that might have been purchased at a discount big box store—Target or JC Penney. Dress shirts and nicer slacks hung in the closet according to color. Shoes marched in a line from one corner toward the other in order of rank, from dress shoes to loafers to sneakers and finally a single pair of slippers. Sweaters, socks and underwear inhabited the dresser, all neatly folded and again arranged by color. A small leather box on top contained a pair of cufflinks, a dressy watch and a tie tack. I checked the closet again and found a few nice silk ties in one corner hung on a hanger next to two suits—one gray and one black—and a navy blazer. Casual dress was de rigueur in Seattle, so the limited amount of formal wear didn’t surprise.
Nothing popped out. He’d kept no personal items in the dresser. Only a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand next to one of the thrillers hinted at something particular to the bedroom’s occupant, and even those were a generic pair available at any drug store. He hadn’t taped anything of value to the bottoms of the drawers or stuffed cash under the mattress. Recent experience had taught me that even the most innocuous people harbored secrets, but D’Amato was nothing but one big secret. I checked the carpeting, especially in the closet, for loose corners under which might be some hidey-hole. Nada. A search of the kitchen yielded similar frustration. I checked all the usual hiding places, including the freezer, toilet tank in the bathroom, air vents, and behind all the pictures on the walls. If there’d been any trash in the place, the cops had taken that, too, leaving me with less than the contents of a wallet the day before payday.
Two more keys dangled from the key ring. After locking up the apartment, I used the first one on the mailbox in the lobby. A thin stack of paper covered the bottom of the box, adding up to a utility bill and two political campaign flyers addressed to “Resident.” I left it all there and contemplated the fourth and fifth keys. The car key was easy, but the last key was curious. Smaller than a door key, but a little larger than the mailbox key, it looked as if it might fit a padlock. I shrugged and looked around for the rear door. Just down the corridor from the mailboxes it let me out into a wall of relative heat in the covered parking area behind the building. The parking slot for D’Amato’s apartment held nothing but a small grease stain on the pavement. So he’d been on foot when he’d waylaid me. I wondered if SPD had recovered his car, a question for Charlie later if I could figure out a way to broach it that wouldn’t get me arrested.
I stared at the last key for a minute. Storage locker? I sighed. It meant a trip back inside to see Jepson. The idea didn’t thrill me. Jepson was bound to see through the thin pretense I’d used to gain access to both the building and D’Amato’s apartment. Other than exploring every floor, which would call more attention to me than simply asking Jepson, I saw no way around it. Two steps toward the back door a bike cage in the corner of the parking area caught my eye. Along with a half dozen bikes sat a small, twilight-blue Vespa scooter. I let the distraction draw me away from the task at hand. Fingers curled into the wire links of the cage, I stared at the classic putt-putt with a touch of envy.
The cage door opened easily with the building key, and I slipped inside for a closer look. I must have admired it for several minutes from all angles before my brain finally registered what I was looking at. Silver lock cylinders stood out brightly from the glove box below the center console and the edge of the leather seat. I glanced at the key ring in my hand and fitted the fifth key into the key switch. It resisted at first then slid into place. I let out the breath I’d been holding and turned the key. The handlebars shifted as the steering lock disengaged, but the console remained dark. Dead battery, probably.
I switched it off and opened the glove box, expecting emptiness. Instead, a few scraps of paper littered the compartment. Surprised and strangely offended at the violation of D’Amato’s otherwise OCD nature, I fished them out and stuffed them in a pocket to throw away later. I locked up the glove box and inserted the key in the lock under the seat. An owner’s manual rested neatly inside along with a state roadmap.
I’d seen everything there was to see, and it hadn’t added up to bupkis.
Chapter 16
July 26—Suitland, Maryland
Reyna laid on her horn as some asshole in a Porsche zipped in front of her nearly cutting her off. She glanced at her speedometer as the Porsche weaved out of her lane to get around the car in front of it. The jerk had to be doing ninety. She was pushing seventy-five herself, headed south on the Suitland Parkway, fuming even without some testosterone-fueled yahoo with a Peter Pan complex indulging his midlife crisis at her expense. She knew she didn’t have much time. She’d probably already run out, but she had to do something.
She considered asking Janet Tolliver, but didn’t want anyone else involved in her problems. She still couldn’t believe NCIS seriously considered her a person of interest in their missing agent case. The situation was definitely FUBAR, and to top it off, Blake was involved somehow. Reyna knew she should obey orders, do nothing. But after what she’d done for the agency the past couple of years, she deserved more than being put on administrative leave under a cloud of suspicion. And since NCIS’s investigation essentially made her guilty until proven innocent, she had to take action. And the clock was ticking. Hell, she was desperate.
As she fished for the cell phone in her purse the realization hit her—NCIS was investigating her. Surely they’d be monitoring her phone. At least they would have gotten a warrant for a phone dump to see who she’d been in touch with. She opened the center console storage compartment and found the burner phone she kept there for emergencies. No one had the number. In fact, she’d never used it. Taking a chance that NCIS wouldn’t be monitoring Janet, she texted Janet’s cell: I need time. Any way u can buy me some? She threw the phone on the passenger seat and put both hands back on the wheel, signaled for the upcoming exit, and veered off the parkway toward home. Five minutes later and another half dozen traffic laws broken, Reyna pulled up in front of her townhouse, not even bothering to put her car in the garage. Keys in hand, she ran to the door, let herself in and raced up the stairs to throw some things in a bag.
The first
thing she grabbed was her HK .45 Compact locked in its case with three extra magazines. She wanted her sidearm. She wasn’t just hedging her bets; she expected trouble. Lord knew she’d seen enough of it where Blake was concerned. The man seemed to attract menace and peril the way her black wool slacks attracted lint. She didn’t know if he was just unlucky or subconsciously went looking for it. He wasn’t an adrenaline junkie, like the navy pilots she’d served with, but his impulsiveness made him take risks. She knew that much, but she hadn’t figured Blake out at all, nor how she really felt about him. She’d cut those feelings off at the knees. He lived in Seattle; she had her career at ONI. The twenty-seven hundred-mile physical distance between them was the least of their problems. She had a different problem to solve now.
Getting a gun on board a plane these days took a mountain of paperwork. She knew a commercial flight was out of the question. She would need specific travel orders and the authority to carry a weapon included in those orders. But she still might be able to get on a military flight out of Andrews AFB if she got lucky, even without orders. It depended on how long it took Janet to write up the orders from Farley putting her on administrative leave, and whether Janet would help her out by delaying. She bit her lip and put the thought aside. All she could do was keep moving and hope things worked out.
She finished packing, hefted the small duffel and hurried down the stairs. On her way out the door, she hesitated then dropped the duffel and stepped into the den. Pawing through a file cabinet, she quickly found what she wanted and stuffed it in the briefcase that doubled as her purse. Retrieving the duffel, she ran out to the car.
Andrews was only ten or fifteen minutes away, and she pushed her BMW X1 as fast as she dared, cursing the thickening traffic. When the line of taillights ahead of her flashed red and came to a dead stop on Allentown Road, she slammed the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. For the next quarter mile she inched along with all the other frustrated drivers, trying not to panic. Just when she thought she might as well turn around and resign herself to her sentence, traffic started flowing again. Soon, she passed a car with a flat on the shoulder and laughed aloud. All that because the looky-Lous had slowed to gawk at some poor sap changing a tire.
Within minutes, she’d traversed Andrews down to the passenger terminal at the south end, and looked for a parking spot in the short-term lot. She didn’t care about the cost. She set the alarm on the SUV, grabbed her things and hurried into the terminal. She knew she was flying by the seat of her pants, and the fact that she had no plan terrified her. Her mind raced as she entered the terminal. She’d have to bluff her way onto a flight if she could, using the old set of orders and an 1853, a travel eligibility verification form. She patted her briefcase, reassuring herself they were still there.
Her briefcase rang, and she paused, confused. Then she remembered she’d stowed the burner cell inside. She pulled it out and checked the screen. A text message from Janet: I’ll try. She turned the phone off and stuffed it back in the case. She’d have to get Janet promoted when all of this was over. The woman was invaluable. Reyna quickened her pace as she neared one of the terminal entrances.
The flurry of activity inside the terminal stopped her in her tracks. A phalanx of feds in gray suits swept the room, and a couple of uniformed K-9 officers walked their dogs around the perimeter of the terminal to sniff for bombs. Uncertainty filled her, and she almost turned around and walked out. Damn it! She’d never had any doubts about her abilities before. She’d had to claw her way up, through training, flight school, active duty, and ONI, her self-confidence always bolstering her courage. But she’d never been investigated before. This was all Blake’s fault. Anger flared inside suddenly, and she steeled her resolve. She moved toward the service counter, scanning the faces around her. To her surprise, her gaze lit on a friendly one.
“Chuck?” she said as she approached. “Chuck Davis?”
A tall, thin man in his late forties looked up from his paperwork behind the counter. A smile broke on his face like the sun peeking over the horizon.
“Commander Chase. What a pleasure! Still saving the world?”
Davis was the day shift supervisor at the AFB passenger terminal, overseeing all the incoming and outgoing AMC—Air Mobility Command—flights. Reyna had met him on two previous occasions, both memorable. The first was when she’d been flown in on a stretcher with a bad gunshot wound. Davis had arranged for ground transfer to Walter Reed National Medical Center, had met the Gulfstream V air ambulance and personally supervised the transfer. Less than a year later, he’d met her flight from Washington State after she’d helped thwart an attempted terrorist bombing. That time he’d been there to molly-coddle the brass that had shown up to greet her. Some of whom now, apparently, were willing to let her career go down the tubes.
Reyna waved her hand around the terminal. “What’s going on?”
“POTUS is flying in on Angel from a trip to the west coast. Don’t you listen to the news? His plane lands in thirty minutes.”
Reyna’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about it.”
“A few things on your mind, eh? Well, what can I do for you?”
She colored. “I have to get out to Seattle, Chuck.”
“Man trouble? That guy you were involved with? What’s his name?”
“Blake,” Reyna said, surprised. “Blake Sanders.”
“Look, Commander, we’re busy as flies on a shit pile right now because of the president.”
Reyna felt her stomach drop, and the hand reaching for the papers in her briefcase stilled.
“Don’t look so glum,” Davis said with a small grin. “It just so happens I’ve got a plane heading out to Joint Base Lewis-McChord in ten minutes. Bunch of guys from a Stryker unit in the 25th Infantry consulting with the Iraqis in Fallujah are on their way back to Hawaii via JBLM. You’ve got your papers?”
Reyna hesitated then nodded and looked down at her open briefcase. She pulled out the old orders and handed them across the counter. But Davis already had his head down filling out boarding paperwork. He waved her orders away.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Like I said, we’re a little busy. Are you carrying a weapon?”
“Yes,” she said, biting her lip.
“Properly locked, I assume. No need to put it in checked baggage. Despite the fact that these boys are no longer officially combat troops, they’re all carrying service weapons. You can carry it on if you want to.”
He finished filling out the proper forms and put them up on the counter. “Okay, now, just for appearances’ sake, smile for the nice Secret Service agents and show me your ID.”
Reyna dug in her briefcase for her photo ID and held it up with both incredulity and relief flooding her system.
Davis handed her the boarding papers. “Better hustle. Wheels up in eight minutes.”
She took them gratefully. “Thanks, Chuck. I owe you big-time.”
“If you save the world again,” he called as she walked away, “don’t get hurt!”
She waved without looking back. Right, like that was going to happen. She was always getting hurt where Blake was concerned. Her more immediate concern was getting on board and out of D.C. And hoping that in six hours no one was waiting at JBLM to arrest her when she deplaned.
Chapter 17
July 27—Seattle
The Seattle Times had a warehouse over in Ballard, one of several in the area, where route drivers assembled newspapers. The papers were printed in Bothell and dropped at various distribution centers throughout the state. A good-sized parking lot abutted the building and served a variety of businesses during the day. It typically emptied out in the late evening after both commuters and restaurant and nightlife patrons went home. But it filled up again after midnight as drivers showed up to get papers for their routes.
I should have paid more attention, but it had been a long day, and the lot was busy as usual. I didn’t notice the two men angling in on either
side behind me until it was too late. They each gripped an arm above the elbow and pulled me to a stop.
“You come with us,” said the one on my right, the thick accent familiar.
“Marko, where are your manners,” the other one said. Either he ordered his wardrobe from a mortuary supply house or he hadn’t changed clothes since the other night—same leather coat, silk pants, black shirt. “We’re here to extend an invitation to Mr. Sanders to join us.”
“Some other time,” I said. “I have to go to work, fellas.”
Marko squeezed, his thumb digging into muscle, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. “You come.”
Other drivers headed toward the bright squares of light from the open loading dock doors, heedless of my predicament.
“I’ll make a scene,” I said. “You don’t want the attention.”
Something hard poked into my kidney. “And you don’t want bullet in kidney,” said the one dressed in black. “Is very painful.”
“Is that smart? Makes a lot of noise. Probably a big hole, too.” My brain screamed, “Shut up!” My mouth chose to ignore the command. Fear roiled the contents of my stomach. I knew all too well what it felt like to get shot.
“This close, just a small pop,” he said, smiling. “And bullet is little. Just rattle around in there, ripping things up.”
They led me away from the light to a dark corner of the lot where they’d left the Mercedes. Marko shoved me into the back seat, sort of like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube given my size. When I untangled myself, the man doing the Johnny Cash impression sat in the front passenger seat pointing the gun at me. Marko came around the car and got behind the wheel. With barely a whisper of sound the big auto started up and glided out of the lot.
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