by A. C. Fuller
The Crime Beat
Episode 5: London
A.C Fuller
Copyright © 2019 by A.C. Fuller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of quotations in book reviews, articles, academic work, or other contexts where brief quotations are warranted.
Contents
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Author Notes, November 2019
About the Author
Other Books By A.C. Fuller
About Gary Collins, Consultant on THE CRIME BEAT
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat is a nine-episode novella series, designed to be read in order and in its entirety. Although each episode tells a complete portion of the story, the nine novellas—read together—weave one unforgettable tale. Flip the page for the complete series list.
Thanks for reading,
-A.C. Fuller
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Click the image to reach the series page for The Crime Beat, or find individual titles below. Prior to the spring of 2020, some of the later episodes may be on pre-order.
Episode 1: New York
Episode 2: Washington, D.C
Episode 3: Miami
Episode 4: Las Vegas
Episode 5: London
Episode 6: Paris
Episode 7: Tokyo
Episode 8: San Francisco
Episode 9: Los Angeles
1
Tuesday
Cole rolled over in bed and rubbed her eyes. Where was she? A sliver of gray light peeked through a crack in the curtains, illuminating a neatly-made bed beside her. The room was otherwise dark. The bathroom door was open, but there was no movement.
Warren.
A hazy memory. She'd watched him wash his face through that bathroom door last night.
Hotel. London.
A screech of pain split her forehead. She groaned.
Hangover.
Her phone read six local time. No message from Warren.
Her first thought—a paranoid one—was that he'd ditched her. It was ridiculous; he'd been the one who'd convinced her to come to London. But she didn't see a note.
She went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, then called room service for a pot of coffee and breakfast. She'd never spent money like this. She and Matt never had room-service money. She told herself the spending was only until she got to the end of... whatever this was.
Warren's stuff was on the dresser. Jeans folded carefully. Leather jacket hung on a hook on the wall. He hadn't ditched her. And if someone had taken him in the night, they wouldn't have made his bed. She texted, asking where he was, and flopped into a stiff, modern recliner.
She'd lost a day on the way to London. The non-stop flight from Vegas had taken eleven hours. She'd tried to sleep, but her conversation with Frankie, and the images it forced into her mind, haunted her. So she drank. First a vodka with tomato juice. Then a whiskey. Then a couple beers. She'd thought it would help her sleep on the second half of the flight. It hadn't. She vaguely remembered Warren cutting her off, and something about a pint of cider in the airport bar. There had been a taxi. And then she'd been in the room. At least she'd slept.
When her coffee arrived, she drank it while staring out a large window overlooking Trafalgar Square. Ant-like people hurried in all directions against a backdrop of a dozen shades of gray. Light gray stone buildings. A vast stone courtyard. And looming in the center, Nelson's Column, a 150-foot column of gray granite, topped with a bronze statue of the Square's namesake, Admiral Nelson, who won the battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Warren had lectured her on the military history as she lay in bed, her head spinning. For some reason, that memory had stuck.
She finished her coffee by seven and got to work. Warren would have insisted they work the nine murders case, but he wasn't there. He hadn't even texted back. She called Frankie in Las Vegas. There it was midnight local time—part of the reason she still felt groggy after three cups of coffee. Frankie picked up on the second ring.
"Hey, Frankie," she said carefully. "It's Jane Cole. How are you?" Warren had left Frankie with the number of a drug and alcohol counselor at the local VA, and Frankie promised to call. Cole needed information, but she had no idea where his mind was. She didn't want to push too hard.
"Been sober sixteen hours." His voice was weary.
"Well done." It was a half-hearted congratulations. "That's something."
"I need to sleep," Frankie said. "You're calling about Lopez and Morgan, right?"
"Yeah."
"Figured you'd wanna track them down."
"I do."
"Therapist today said I need to prioritize my own well being. My health and sobriety. Maybe quit being 'The Entertainer,' whatever than means. I'm out on this one. Last thing I need is you trying to drag me back in."
"Do you know if they're still in?"
A heavy sigh came through the line, followed by a soft thud, like Frankie falling heavily in an armchair. "Nah, they're both out."
"If I promise never to ask you another question, never to mention you to them, can you give me anything else? I need to find them."
Frankie let out a wet, heaving cough. "Like what?"
"First names for a start. Where they live. What they do."
"I don't know what they do. Always tried not to find out too much about the guys. Didn't know if they were gonna make it." He sighed. "Julio Lopez and Chris Morgan. That's it, though, okay?"
Cole wrote the names on hotel stationery. She didn't know how long he'd been an addict, but there was a struggle in his voice. If he'd been sober for sixteen hours, his body would rebel. She'd worried about her own drinking once or twice since Matt died. It was only on mornings like this, though, when the previous night was hazy and her head alternated between dull throbbing and sharp, electric jolts of pain.
Julio Lopez and Chris Morgan were common names. Not easy to track down. One more piece of information about each would go a long way to finding them. "Frankie, please. Gimme one more thing about these guys. Anything you've heard. Something they said about home, jobs, hobbies, wives."
"Lopez was the beta, Morgan the alpha. Heard Lopez went back to Texas. Morgan to California."
"Thanks." Cole walked to her laptop, which had somehow ended up on the small desk in the corner. "Get some sleep, Frankie. And keep in touch, okay? Warren worries about you."
It took her only an hour to locate the men.
She found Julio Lopez easily. He was a truck driver based in Houston and active on social media. His Facebook page indicated only three interests: the Bible, a soccer team called the Houston Dynamo, and his daughter, who'd been born recently. There was only one picture of the baby girl, and Lopez wasn't in it. His relationship status read "Single." Cole got the sense that he wasn't close to the mother of his daughter, but wanted to be. His posts had a loneliness to them—no pictures of himself with anyone, and multiple quotes from the Bible about redemption and giving oneself to God after a life of sin.
Guilt. That could be useful.
Chris Mo
rgan was more difficult to locate. Social media offered nothing, but a public records search turned up a business in San Diego listed under the name Christopher Bruce Morgan. A puff piece in a San Diego weekly newspaper named his contracting business the best in southern California for opulent homes. Diamond Luxury Construction specialized in beachfront homes for the rich and famous. An article in an upmarket real estate magazine, had a photo spread with an image of Morgan standing in front of a beachfront "meditation cottage" in Malibu, high-fiving the stunning blonde actress he'd built it for. He had short blonde hair, a nice tan, shiny white teeth, and a shit-eating grin that made her want to punch the screen.
Cole walked a lap around the hotel room, which was decorated with sleek, modern furniture in white and black. She examined herself in a mirror, but looked away quickly. She shook her head, trying to shake off the hangover, but the sudden movement made it worse. Walking another lap, she sipped a cup of cold coffee, then stopped at the window. Thin gray clouds were backlit, the sun almost sneaking through.
Lopez would be an easier target. He seemed to be having difficulty in life, and vulnerable people were more likely to tell the truth. Frankie said he was the beta of the pair. If he had been involved in Matt's death, there was a chance he wanted to tell someone, even if he didn't know that yet. But how to get him talking?
As a reporter, she always had an excuse to initiate a difficult discussion. Most people didn't like it, but everyone understood it. "I'm Jane Cole from the New York Sun, do you mind if I ask you some questions?" Now, she had no opening, no angle. What was she supposed to do, send him a Facebook message? "Excuse me, but did you kill my husband in Afghanistan three years ago?"
She studied Lopez's Facebook feed again. For the last three weeks, he'd posted six to ten times a day. The content varied little—inspiring Bible quotes, score updates from soccer games, and the same picture of his daughter, re-posted multiple times. Sometimes the photo had red hearts drawn crudely around the picture, probably with some basic photo-editing app that came with his phone. Before three weeks ago, he'd posted once a day at most.
Something had changed three weeks ago.
She scrolled back in time. A few more soccer updates, and… then she saw it.
It was "Vaguebooking"—the practice of posting a status update that means a lot to the poster, but that most people don't have enough context to understand. Those sorts of posts annoyed the hell out of her and screamed Attention Seeker. Posts like, "Oh, my God. I can't believe it!" Or, "How dare she say that to me?"
Lopez had written, "Well, I guess its over." He'd left the apostrophe off of the "it's."
She scrolled back another week, then two, until she found a similar post: "Is it possible she'll take me back?"
She closed her eyes, allowing his posts to fill her mind. She'd used social media for work and work only. Others used it out of loneliness or even desperation. A whisper into the darkness in the desperate hope that someone is listening. Free therapy, of a sort.
A timeline formed in her mind. Lopez had gotten someone pregnant, someone he wanted to be with. But he was away a lot, driving trucks. He'd tried to maintain the relationship, but it hadn't worked out. Maybe he'd cheated? Or hit her? He sought forgiveness from God, redemption. He'd wanted the relationship to work, but it ended abruptly.
She hated what she was about to do, but not enough to keep her from doing it.
With a burner email address, she created a new Facebook profile under the name Sandy Beltaggio. She found a dozen photos of a dark-haired model on a free stock image site and loaded a headshot as the profile picture, then filled out her profile with details.
Location: Houston, Texas
Interests: soccer, cooking, yoga, Bible studies.
Relationship status: single.
Facebook wouldn't allow her to backdate posts to build out her fake profile, so she'd have to build it over a few days. She started with a series of posts, designed to interest Lopez.
A beautiful image of a sunrise with a passage from John 3:18. Let us not love with words but with actions and truth.
A short post expressing excitement about an upcoming soccer match.
Another stock image of the model, now running on a beach.
A post about how she'd been divorced for three months, and was finally ready to mingle again.
Another Bible quote.
She'd post again tomorrow to fill out the fake profile. It needed to be more convincing before she could approach Lopez. She'd also need at least a few friends with some interactions on her feed. She built three more fake profiles over the course of an hour, "friending" each of the fake accounts from the others, then liking and commenting on posts. It had to look real.
She let her eyes go soft, releasing the tension in her shoulders until they dropped. Her headache was fading.
There was a click at the door.
Warren entered, glistening with sweat. The front of his tight t-shirt had soaked through. "Decent gym in the basement," he said. "Not in the shape I was a few months ago, but…"
He went into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked slightly. He took off his shirt, exposing his strong back as he turned on the sink and let the water run over a washcloth. She watched him wash his face, staring longer than she intended. Longer than appropriate. Watching Warren reminded her of last night. Had she stared like this in her drunken stupor? Or done something even more embarrassing? She'd never been attracted to muscular guys, at least not because of their muscles. Matt had been in good shape, but lean. He didn't work out to build muscle mass. Warren was in the kind of shape she'd only seen on the cover of muscle magazines in grocery stores. His slim waist formed the bottom of a V that spread up his back into broad shoulders supporting a thick, muscular neck.
Cole forced her eyes to the floor, giving her head a little wiggle, erasing the image of Warren like an etch-a-sketch. She was just out of it. Hungover. When she looked up, he had on a new t-shirt.
"We should eat," he said on his way out of the bathroom. He wiped his forearms with a washcloth. "Found my old professor. He's willing to talk tonight."
She said nothing.
He pressed the washcloth into his face. "Cole?"
She took a deep breath, stood, and nodded at the empty plate. "I already ate, but I can eat again."
"Guy at the front desk recommended a breakfast place. It's near the site of the last shooting." He went quiet and Cole looked up. Warren was staring at her, his head cocked to the side. "You okay? You were pretty far gone last night. What were you doing while I was working out?"
"Yeah. Fine. Nothing. Just… yeah. Let's eat, then check out the hotel where the Deputy Crown Prince was shot."
2
Cole stared at her plate of french fries, sunny-side-up eggs, and sliced tomatoes. The waiter had convinced her it was a respected hangover cure in England. She needed all the help she could get, but couldn't bring herself to dip a fry in the egg yolk, as the waiter had instructed. She pushed the plate away.
Warren noticed, scooped up one of the eggs with his fork, and ate it in a single bite.
"How do the London police work?" Cole asked. "Any way you can get a contact?"
"Don't know much about it. I doubt it. And it's not even the real issue. MI5 does domestic intelligence. MI6 does foreign intelligence. My guess is they're both in on this. That, and the Saudis are pissed. Saw a headline on the way over that they're sending investigators. And I'd bet they're sending people off the books, too."
Cole sighed. "How do we get close?"
Warren ate his spinach omelet in silence, his forehead creased in thought.
They'd walked by the site of the most recent shooting on their way to the restaurant, but accomplished nothing. Standing in a crowd behind a police line a hundred yards from the hotel entrance gave them nothing. Mohammad bin Muqrin had been surrounded by four security guards when he was killed. He'd been out of his armored limo for ten seconds. Police didn't yet know precisely where the sniper was w
hen he fired. No weapon had been found. The only thing anyone knew for sure was that the assassin had been high up and far away. Same as the other shootings. Whoever killed bin Muqrin had known about the meeting, known he'd be there. But that didn't narrow it down much. At the scene, Cole and Warren had surveyed the area, heard locals and tourists speculate about where the shot had come from, taken a few photos, and given up.
Warren ate Cole's other egg.
Cole nibbled a French fry and broke the silence. "In New York, we were so close. Same in D.C. and Miami. Now…" She shook her head, then looked up and met Warren's eyes. He looked concerned. She didn't want that. "Don't look at me like that. I know you're worried about me."
"I am."
"Don't be."
"Can't help it. Has it ever gotten this bad?"
"Has what gotten this bad?"
"You, your… whatever it is."
She leaned across the table, about to launch into a defensive tirade, but all the energy left her and she leaned back. She picked an ice cube from her water glass and crunched it. "When Matt died, it was bad. Now he's dying all over again. But it's worse this time. Because it's not just losing him. It's the injustice of the thing. If Frankie was telling the truth, and I know he was…"
"You don't have to finish that sentence. I know. I've worked with enough families of victims to know. You won’t feel whole until you know what happened."
"Exactly."
"How did you get out of your funk before? I mean, the first time Matt died?"