Inside, Win presented his identification to a bored clerk behind a bulletproof-glass window, signed a sheaf of documents, and was informed that a check for the $200 found in Erik's wallet would be mailed to him "in about three weeks."
He made no attempt to conceal disgust for such an illogical bureaucratic practice. It was typical of cold harassment routinely endured by the families of Metro's victims, he would learn.
The clerk ensured Win signed for each separate item. Although braced for the worst, the normally stoic father teared up, when handed off-white tennis shoes Erik had been wearing the day he was shot to death.
"And the clothes he… ?"
The lady shook her head. "I'm sorry. That's not… feasible."
Win nodded. The T-shirt and jeans were blood-soaked and shredded with bullet holes.
He departed, carrying sealed manila envelopes and a brown paper sack with the shoes. Angling across the Sun-baked parking lot, he could hardly breathe. That familiar tightness had seized his chest again, warning of a potential "cardiac event" similar to one five years earlier.
He started the Volvo's engine and punched on the air conditioner, counterattacking the omnipresent, head-pounding desert heat. Shaking Erik's wallet from an envelope, he sorted through a huge pile of business, credit and employee cards. His son's driver's license was missing.
Shitbirds!
As if they didn't know who they'd murdered. Evidently, they required driver's-license confirmation.
The "smoking guns" he'd hoped to find were in a second envelope: Erik's "white card," the Concealed Carry Weapon or CCW permit, and six "blue cards." Issued by Metro, each of the latter identified a particular handgun Erik was authorized to carry.
Five of the blue cards were laminated. The sixth wasn't. It stated that Erik had purchased the now-missing-in-action .380 caliber Ruger LCP less than a month before his murder. The palm-size Ruger was to have been a Mother's Day gift for Layna. Two edges of that blue card were stained with Erik's blood.
Win was soon in Sofia's office and twisting the top off a much appreciated bottle of water. The attorney stood at her desk, sorting through Erik's wallet.
Taking a long pull of chilled Dasani, Win reported, "The idiots kept his driver's license."
"They always keep the license," Sofia said, handing the stack of cards to a paralegal for copying. "What's in the other envelopes?"
"Stuff from his pockets—ChapStick, a few coins and a receipt for a hundred bucks, issued around eleven a.m. on the tenth. I think it's for the Ho's Executive Membership Erik bought that morning."
"No BlackBerry?" Sofia asked, frowning.
Win shook his head.
"Damn! I wanted that phone!" The attorney settled into a leather desk chair and crossed her legs. "Do you have any idea what Erik might have used as a security code for his BlackBerry?"
"Not for sure," Win said. "Maybe his Cardiac Response employee ID. Why?"
Sofia sighed and reclined the swivel-base chair. It responded with a loud screech.
"Brian James, one of the Metro homicide dicks, called earlier, asking whether we had the lock-out security code for Erik's BlackBerry. Obviously, I didn't. Wouldn't give it to that bald bastard, even if I did!
"Anyway, Metro's IT midgets tried nine times to get into the BlackBerry. Evidently, after ten failed cracks at a security code, BlackBerries automatically wipe the memory clean. Zap! Everything's gone.
"Consequently, I thought the idiots might have sent his phone to the vault. Damn!" she groused.
The lawyer paused, distracted by a helicopter flying past her high-rise office window. "I know an excellent hacker, who can bypass the security code and get into any BlackBerry. But it's tricky. If we screw up, everything's gone."
"We need to know who Erik was texting with that BlackBerry," Win said. "At least, after the evacuation got underway."
"Right," she agreed. "From the phone records, we know several messages were sent, while Erik and Kat were shopping. Their content would prove Erik was of sound mind, not 'whacked out' on painkillers. That would undermine Metro's fairy tale, as well as BS claims made by that lying sack… . That Ho's undercover-security twerp."
Steele cracked a lopsided grin. Counselor Knight had a tendency to slip into salty-Marine mode, when she was fired up. Frankly, he appreciated such passion from his lawyer.
Sofia's paralegal returned with photocopies of the wallet's contents.
"Did you notice the Ruger blue card?" Win asked sharply.
"Yes… but I wasn't going to mention it. Is that… ?"
"Yeah. Erik's blood stained the edges. Metro managed to clean up all the laminated cards, but couldn't do much about that one."
Win retrieved the Ruger LCP blue card from a stack. Holding it up, he said, "This is proof that Erik was not carrying a second gun in his pocket."
"Proof?"
"Erik took a round through his thigh, below the right pocket of his jeans. Rico Rodolfo and a doctor friend confirmed that, right? When they examined Erik's body."
Sofia nodded. "Well, Erik always carried that over-grossed wallet in his right-front pocket. The blood-stained blue card proves that's where it was."
The lawyer was confused. "Okay… . So what?"
Win gathered the array of cards and reinserted them into the wallet's various compartments. Holding the single-fold, well-worn leather billfold between his thumb and a forefinger, he explained, "See how thick that hummer is? 'Bout an inch-and-three-quarters? There's no way Erik could have carried this and a gun in that right-front pocket!
"It's impossible to cram both that wallet and a Ruger LCP in the same pocket of tight jeans. Physics says two objects can't occupy the same space at the same time."
"But the AMR ambulance report said the EMTs found a gun and extra magazine in his pockets," Sofia countered.
"Not 'in' his pockets; 'to' his pockets. Strange terminology, right? The gun AMR EMTs found on Erik's body was the Kimber forty-five, still inside his jeans' waistband, still in the holster. Metro cops took the forty-five from those EMTs and laid it on the concrete in front of Ho's, implying Erik had pulled his gun. That supposedly justified shooting my son to death."
Sofia stared at Steele, mentally processing. She was starting to appreciate the way this old flight test engineer and investigative journalist operated. Add the impressive observations she'd heard from Kyler—who held a degree in criminology—and this Steele crew constituted valuable allies. In essence, they were seasoned investigators and technical experts.
"You know what you're intimating?" she asked pointedly.
"Hell, yes. Metro's finest corrupted a crime scene and falsified evidence to cover up a homicide. Somebody whitewashed Erik's murder to protect worthless killer-cops."
"And a super-corrupt sheriff's reelection campaign," Sofia added. "If we can prove that Metro's two-gun narrative is a fabrication, a bunch of cops are going to prison."
Eyes narrowing to a slit, Win stared at her for a long moment, before retorting, "If they live that long."
* *
Steele was en route to Erik's condo, when Kyler called. The younger Steele had returned to Southern California the previous Sunday, having deferred family responsibilities and job duties as long as he dared. Win understood, but hated to see him leave.
Kyler's cool-headed counsel and assistance with myriad gotta-dos, through those initial days of shock and disbelief, had been invaluable. And something deep inside demanded that Win never again let his sole remaining son out of sight.
"Hey, Dad. Do you have Erik's Cardiac Response employee number handy?"
"Not at the moment, son. Just left Sofia's office, and I'm on the road. Stand by a second… ."
Win eased into an adjacent traffic-choked lane in time to exit onto the Summerlin Parkway. "Okay, I'm back. What's up with the employee number?"
"I was poking around Erik's laptop computer and two random things caught my eye: An Excel file marked 'SWISS' and an application labeled 'CHECK.' When I
tried to open them, a box popped up, asking for a password. I've tried the one Max and I used to get into Erik's gun safe, but no luck.
"I took the computer to a college buddy—a damned good hacker—who figured out that "CHECK" is a completely separate section that's password-protected. He called it a 'sophisticated, highly secure partition.'"
"That's weird. Any ideas?"
Approaching his exit, Win wasn't fully focused on what his son was saying.
A long silence suggested the call had dropped. Kyler finally said, "You're going to think I'm nuts, but… . When we were in Sacramento, over Memorial Day, Erik told me some random BS that, frankly, I didn't take seriously. He was kinda laughing, you know, so I figured he was yanking my chain."
"Trying to sucker in little brother?"
"Exactly! Anyway, he said he was 'sorta still in the Army.' I'm like, 'Yeah, sure!' But he insisted he really had been 'semi-recalled' and was working 'some cool secret shit on the side.'
"I blew it off, but he swore the story was legit — and that I shouldn't tell you and Mom, 'cause you'd get all freaked-out. I hadn't thought about it, until I found that secret partition on his computer."
Win tried to make new pieces dovetail with the facts of Erik's death. "Interesting," he replied slowly. "You see a connection… ?"
"Could be," Kyler interrupted. "Let's say Erik was involved in a secret op of some kind. Maybe he got in over his head and the people he worked with had him killed.
"Look, everything about Erik's murder sounds like a setup to me. Going to Ho's and spending so damned much time in there. That rag-head pervert calling nine-one-one for the lamest reason. A bazillion cops rolling in, like they were expecting all-out war. Then Erik being shot seven times with practically no warning, in the middle of a crowd!"
"I know. The whole incident never made a damned bit of sense," Win conceded. "But it was too random, too many moving parts to be planned.
"Even if it was intentional, why kill a guy in public, surrounded by fifty, sixty people? Pulling off a hit like that, with dozens of witnesses, is something a brilliant Israeli Mossad team might try, but Metro's dumb asses? No frickin' way.
"That Ho's undercover security guy isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, and at least two of the assholes who killed Erik are dumber than dirt, according to Link Mann's sources at Metro. I don't see how that gaggle of clowns could have set this up and pulled it off."
"Unless you consider one key player: Kat," Kyler said bluntly. "Look, she popped into Erik's life only two or three months ago, right? And who insisted they go to Ho's that day? Kat did. Erik wanted to go shooting. And we know Erik absolutely hated shopping! Take Kat out of the equation, and I might agree that the rest was too random. But, if she was in on it… ."
Win offered several counter-arguments, while punching a keypad at the entrance of Erik's gated condo complex.
"The section you found on the computer may be the key, son. Getting into it could answer a lot of questions about what Big-E might have been up to.
"But Kat being in on a complicated plot, and Erik getting bumped off by design? I don't see that. Too complex.
"If I wrote that as fiction, my editor would rip it to shreds. Too unbelievable."
"Maybe so. But there's more to Erik's execution than we're seeing, Dad.
"… Hey, my boss is buzzing in. Gotta go. I'll check in later."
Win noodled on Kyler's theory, as he threaded the condo complex's maze of streets, then parked in front of Unit 104. He detoured to a trash dumpster and pitched his son's stained tennis shoes. Layna didn't need another graphic, heart-ripping reminder of that day.
Inside, he found his bride hot, tired and emotionally spent.
"Hey, Princess," he said, wrapping Layna in an embrace. "You've had enough for one day."
She gave him a peck-kiss. "Take me some place cool. I can't tolerate another minute. Everything I touch screams that Erik's gone. We'll never see him again, never talk to him, never hear him laugh, never hug him."
She turned and picked up Erik's First Cavalry hat.
"This is so hard!" she cried.
Their son had been proud of that black, Western-style hat with gold braid and tassels. It and tall boots, with spurs, were unique badges of honor—an officer in a famous Army unit with roots sunk deep in the old West.
For Win, the hat in Layna's hands somehow epitomized Erik… and his absence.
Later, in a nearby Ruby Tuesday restaurant, Win swirled a glass of iced tea and recounted the conversation with Kyler. He and Layna wrestled with the idea that Erik might have been involved in a highly classified military activity and concluded that it was possible, although unlikely.
"Didn't Erik talk about hiring on with that Blackwater company?" Layna recalled.
"Yeah, but that was at least two years ago. They said he was too old, and his Army experience was outdated," Win countered.
"Unless Kyler and his hacker friend can get into that computer's 'secret' section, we may never know whether Erik was into something spooky."
Layna nodded. "If Erik was back on active duty, wouldn't somebody have a record of it?"
"Maybe. If he were involved in a deep-black operation, though, it couldn't be accessed without a wad of security clearances.
"But, let's assume Erik had been recruited by a black-ops somebody. In that case, those goons murdered a covert federal agent. And 'black-world somebodies' always get even."
* *
GROOM LAKE, NEVADA
On a remote, highly secure U.S. Air Force base in central Nevada, the leader of those "somebodies" was wrapping up a secure-link videoconference with Todd Bright, the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security.
"The first phase of Gold Shield is complete, sir. Inoculations of Sheriff Uriah and his frontline staff went off without a hitch," Gray Manor reported.
"A couple of smart bioelectronic guys here at 'The Ranch' are analyzing blood samples Castle took from the worst of Metro's senior officers. When they've properly sequenced Captain Greel's DNA, we can tailor the Holo system and start flying missions every night."
Bright asked a few technical questions, then, almost as an afterthought, added, "Did you run into Erik's father at the memorial service?"
Manor cracked a grin, wondering how his boss knew the Checkmate director had attended that service.
"I saw Steele, but didn't have an opportunity to talk with him."
Or any intention to do so, he thought.
"Interesting guy," Todd said, leaning closer to the video camera in his Washington office. "While signing some requisitions last night, I stumbled across his name. In a way, Win Steele is working with us."
Astonished, Manor said, "Checkmate? Hell, I hired everybody… !"
"No, no, no," Bright said, wagging a hand. "He signed on as a contractor for a deception program another unit kicked off a few weeks ago. It employs entertainment as a counterterrorism strategy.
"Don't have time to bore you with the details, but Steele's one of several authors we brought in. He's under contract to write a book called 'Atlas Attacks,' which we'll turn into a movie. Maybe a video game, as well.
"We're using an old military propaganda strategy to instill doubt and mistrust in the same community Checkmate's targeting. If these hired-gun writers are successful, your sleeper cells might self-eliminate. When bin Laden and his ilk send the 'go' signal, would-be suicide bombers might decide to just keep driving the taxi.
"Clever concept. Works like Atlas Attacks could be powerful complements to Checkmate's efforts."
Manor cocked his head. "So… Comet and his dad were on the same team? Both working domestic counterterrorism, and neither knew about the other?"
"Sure looks that way, son. 'Course, what's kinda macabre is this: Steele-senior didn't sign on, until a few hours after his son was murdered. Don't that beat all?"
Bright checked his watch and declared he had to "trot off to another damn fool meeting," concluding, "Gray, I've sent info about Win Ste
ele's DHS handler to your secure iPad. Name's Black, a former sheriff out there in Colorado. Goes by 'Doc,' for some reason. Black's now with Lawhead Corp, serving as a liaison for U.S. Northern Command and our Domestic Counterterrorism folks at DHS."
"Got it, sir. Who does Black liaison with?"
"Mostly city, county and state law enforcement outfits. Hey, I'm late and gettin' later. See ya."
The screen blanked, as Todd signed off.
Gray Manor clasped both hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling.
What a stroke of unbelievable luck. Having a surreptitious, backdoor link to Erik's ex-journalist father could be very useful.
A malevolent plan was taking shape in the retired general's gray matter. Checkmate was about to turn up the heat on brown-shirted killers in Las Vegas.
Pigs, you're definitely gonna boil.
CHAPTER 20
HIGHER STAKES
"Something must be done about vengeance,
a badge and a gun."
Know Your Enemy
Rage Against the Machine
LAS VEGAS
"Ma'am, I clocked you at forty-four in a forty mile-per-hour zone," the officer said. A brass pocket-tag announced: Kalas.
"Are you serious?" Katrina Hart exclaimed. "I was definitely under forty!"
"Ma'am, I never joke about speeding in a residential area. And you were."
Kat fought tears and a tremor in her lower lip, gripping the driver's-side window with both hands.
"Look, this is the third time in two weeks I've been stopped along here. You guys know I live two blocks away, so you stake out this street. I know you're here, and I make a point of going extra-slow. I was not speeding!
"Why are you doing this… sir?" Kat asked, determined to remain respectful.
Kalas ignored her. He copied the attractive woman's license info, and handed her the ticket book.
"Sign in that block."
Kat scrawled her signature and held the pad at arm's length. Her other hand was clamped to the car door's window, which lacked three inches of being fully open.
The Permit Page 27