Edge of Black

by J. T. Ellison

  If he was a profiler, he’d start looking at this killer more like a workplace shooter, someone with an ax to grind, who felt he was being disenfranchised. Someone whose world was falling apart, and blamed the people around him for that downfall.

  Congressman Leighton, Dr. Loa Ledbetter and Marc Conlon.

  Each knew the other in some capacity. But where was their overlap? Who had come across all three of them in such a way that he, or she, was infuriated enough to kill them all?

  “Inez, where’s that list of staffers from Leighton’s office? And I want to start talking to the people who were with him the morning of the attack. I don’t care what Temple said, one of them could have had some sort of access to him.”

  “Right here.”

  She handed him a file folder.

  “What about the damn detective from Indianapolis? Has he ever surfaced?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Yes, he did. He’s supposed to call at three. He’s at a conference in Berlin, and won’t be free until this evening.” She perched on the edge of his desk. “You look like a man with something on his mind.”

  “You can say that again. Too much information coming at me from too many quarters. But that’s good. The artist off to Mrs. Conlon?”

  “Yes. You probably have an hour before Ms. Ledbetter joins us. Can I get you anything?”

  Answers.

  “I need something else from you. You’ve been looking at those photos Sam got you access to, right?”

  “Yes. Dr. Ledbetter was a wonderful photographer.”

  “If nothing else is leaping out at you, set them aside for now. I want you to find everything you can on the congressman’s past, especially around 1990. I want to know what he ate for dinner, where he shopped, the works. And not just details, I want assumptions, too. Go through his life with a fine-tooth comb. Everything that you think could be relevant to his murder. I need a second set of eyes and hands on this, so consider yourself promoted. No more fetching me coffee. Unless you’re absolutely itching to continue being secretary of the year instead of doing the heavy lifting.”

  Inez smiled. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  She brightened, and pushed her glasses back up her nose in excitement. “I was hoping you’d ask. I’ve actually already started looking into him.”

  He smiled at her. “I figured. What do you have?”

  “Well, Africa, for one. His military record is pretty straightforward. He was in Liberia in 1990, supposedly part of the reinforced rifle company that went in to protect the embassy in Monrovia. Now that’s on the other side of the continent from Kenya, where Ledbetter’s photo was supposedly taken, but I think Dr. Ledbetter was actually in Liberia when that picture was taken, not Kenya. The Maasi travel, of course. Plus they’re trotted out for national visits and things, they’re one of the most recognizable tribes in Africa. It’s plausible that the whole Peace Corps thing could be a front for her. It would help her life take on some perspective.”

  “What are you saying? Ledbetter was a spy?”

  “I think she might have been, yes. She was a world traveler, never stayed in one place more than two or three years. State Department doesn’t have a record of her working for them, but that means nothing. But they do have a record for Leighton. And it’s redacted. That’s why he would have been in plain clothes in Liberia instead of military—he was attached to the embassy, and so was she. The Maasi shot could even be cover for where she really was in Africa. And it would be very hush-hush, of course. Not something you talk to your friends about. But lots of people get recruited out of the Peace Corps. Or are placed there to start their careers.”

  Fletcher had to give it to Inez, she was showing what Bianco liked to refer to as “real imagination.”

  “So if Leighton’s job in the Army was to run interference for CIA operatives, wouldn’t that kind of information get out during a congressional run?”

  “Not if they covered their tracks pretty well. He was a popular candidate, didn’t have a lot of opposition that stood a chance. His first election was relatively painless, and in his subsequent elections he ran unchallenged. So it’s very possible that no one dug deep enough to find this. It’s not the kind of thing your run-of-the mill journalist can get his hands on—I’m lucky State was willing to play ball. I think the only reason they were was because he was dead. And I agreed to have dinner with the watch officer who pulled the file for me.”

  “He cute?”

  “Very.” She shared a wicked grin with him.

  “That is all very compelling. What else do you have?”

  “A lot that doesn’t make sense. The murders, for example. He couldn’t have done them.”

  “Yeah, I already suspected that.”

  “You did?”

  “Just a hunch. As soon as that DNA comes back, we’ll know for sure, but it just felt too convenient.”

  “Convenient, for sure. His schedule matches up perfectly to the estimated dates of the crimes. But the last two girls went missing for a day or two before they turned up dead, so there’s some leeway on exactly when the crimes occurred. Twelve hours in either direction casts some pretty big doubt on his whereabouts. He leaves town before they’re found, but they’re all dead for almost one day before he comes to town. Now remember time of death is somewhat unreliable when you’re talking days, rather than hours. All they can really tell is what day they were killed based on insect activity on the bodies, not what time exactly. So it’s feasible that he was there and the first thing he does when he lands is go out and find a girl to kill.”

  “Tell me more about him.”

  “I started in 1994. He’d just left the military, and wed Gretchen Dasnai. She was his hometown honey from high school. They’d known each other for years, had been dating since they were in their late teens. They got busy having a baby—that’s Peter Junior, the one who died—and got Peter Senior settled in her father’s law practice. He went to night school while he paralegaled for the firm. When he graduated and passed the bar, they brought him on as an associate. By 2000 he was a partner, and he made his first Congressional run in 2002. The rest I think you know.”

  “So he’s been time-sharing his life with Indiana and D.C. ever since. Thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen.”

  “His son died in 2011, and that’s when he did the big turnaround on his stance toward military funding.”

  “Did they have the vote today on the appropriations bill?”

  “They did. It didn’t pass.”

  “Just like Glenn Temple expected. Who is he in all of this? He was a bit autocratic when I met him, and crass to boot. Seemed more upset about the fact they’d lose the votes on the bill than his boss’s death.”

  “Ah, see, now that’s where things get interesting. Temple is a hometown boy, as well. He’s known the congressman as long as his wife, maybe more. They went to elementary school together.”

  Fletcher whistled. “There could be some animosity there. Always playing second fiddle, that kind of thing. And Mrs. Leighton mentioned that it was odd that Temple had helped the congressman with his inhaler. That was supposed to be the security detail’s job.”

  Inez shrugged. “Who knows? That’s all I have right now.”

  “That’s one hell of a good start, kiddo. Now go get me some more. Don’t forget the finances.”

  She glowed with the praise, and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll be back to you with anything else I can dig up. The boys have been working the financials, I’ll get their report to you as soon as it’s finalized.”

  She practically skipped off to her desk and settled behind her computer, her fingers a blur as she continued her research.

  Okay. One step taken.

  * * *

  Morgan Thompsen waltzed into the JTTF at half-past ten with two serio
usly bleary-eyed women in tow. Thompsen looked great, like she’d been sleeping in cotton wool for the past ten hours, not up all night roaming the streets. Age, Fletcher decided. That, and good genes. It certainly wasn’t clean living.

  Inez got them situated in the conference room and passed around steaming mugs of coffee. The working girls, introduced as Alexis and Rosie, slumped in their seats, not happy to be there.

  Tough. This was more important than their comfort.

  Thompsen set her mug on the table. “Okay, ladies. Tell us what you know about Congressman Leighton.”

  Alexis glanced at Rosie. “You mean Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, right?”

  “Seriously?” Fletcher asked. “That’s what you call him?”

  “That’s what he calls himself. He’s a nutter, but normally harmless. Likes shows, doubles, triples, club sandwich, but sometimes all-nut threesies, too. He’s generally up for anything, if you catch my drift.”

  “Does he prefer men or women?”

  Rosie shrugged. “Always thought he was caught between the pointers and the setters, if you catch my drift.”

  “Oh, my God, he liked doing it with dogs?” Inez was almost apoplectic, and Thompsen leaned over to her and explained.

  “He was bisexual, but didn’t seem to know which he preferred, men or women. And he liked multiple partners at once.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, that sounds...adventurous.” Inez was embarrassed by her outburst, but gamely trying to recover. Fletcher bit his lip to stop himself laughing; despite her nonchalant tone, the poor girl’s eyes were wide as saucers. She was trying to act blasé, but the more the hookers explained “Peter Peter’s” proclivities, the pinker her face became. Oh, to be young and innocent again.

  And when the hookers realized they had a captive audience, they went all out, even offering to act out a few of the concepts for their inexperienced companion.

  Thompsen was openly laughing now, and Fletcher cut them off with a smile. Inez hastily closed her mouth and composed herself, still bright pink.

  “Okay, okay. No more playing,” Fletcher said. “I’m going to show you some photographs, and I want you to tell me which one is Peter Peter.”

  He’d made up a six-pack of pictures, a small card with photos of six men on it. The congressman’s face was third from the left. He slid the composite to Alexis, and she stared at it a minute and shook her head. “Rose, you see him?”

  Rosie looked and shook her head, as well. “No. He’s not any of them. But remember that one, on the bottom right, Lexie? He wanted us to rob the liquor store for him.”

  Normally, that would be of interest to all involved, but Fletcher needed to stay focused.

  “You’re sure you don’t recognize him.”

  “No, sir,” the girls said in tandem.

  Fletcher glanced at Thompsen, who was nodding. Fletch’s hunch was right on: someone was claiming to be the congressman, but it wasn’t him.

  “Tell me what he looks like.”

  Alexis scratched her left ear. “He’s slim build. Short hair, parted on the side. Puts that smelly cream in it so it will lay down. Handsome, but seems like he could pop his top anytime. He really seems like a congressman, you know? His attitude. Like he’s really important.”

  “Important. That’s it, Lexie,” Rosie chimed in.

  Something in Fletcher ticked. He’d met a man very much like that just the day before. A man who would know enough about the congressman and his day-to-day life to impersonate him with ease.

  But if that were the case...

  “Hold on, ladies. I’ll be right back.”

  Fletcher left the conference room and quickly traversed the floor to his desk, toggled his mouse and typed in the website for the congressman. He clicked on the Staff button, and up popped a bevy of people. The man at the top was the one he wanted. He captured the image and sent it to print, anxiously tapping his forefinger on the mouse, making the pointer jump herky-jerky all over the screen.

  Once the printer spit out the paper, he took it and went back to the conference room.

  He had no idea what he’d interrupted, Inez was pink again and Thompsen was nearly doubled over laughing, but he ignored them and shoved the paper toward Alexis.

  “Do you recognize this man?”

  Alexis nodded right away, handed the paper to Rosie, who said, “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Peter.”

  Thompsen took the paper from Rosie and glanced at it. “Who is he?”

  “Glenn Temple. The congressman’s chief of staff.”

  Chapter 40

  Dillon, Colorado

  Xander Whitfield

  Sam was bent over the files Reed McReynolds had brought them, lost in a world Xander barely understood. He watched her read, her eyes flitting across the pages as she absorbed the autopsy report on Sal Gerhardt. She made little noises every once in a while, hmms and ohs which could only lead him to believe she was finding the information of some worth.

  He tried to ignore her and read through the memoir Loa Ledbetter had written. As far as he could tell, she’d come across the Mountain Blue and Gray through a private message board and reached out. She knew all the right lingo, used the acronyms that he was familiar with liberally throughout the text. TEOTWAWKI came up often, but she got into other details—bugout bags and humanitarian daily rations and INCH communications. Xander, too, had these items in his arsenal—in addition to the guns and rations and stored water and iodine pills and batteries, he had a solid escape plan should he ever have to bug out of the cabin in the Savage River mountains, and a way to send an INCH letter that told people “I’m never coming home.” He’d never really talked to Sam about his preparations, knowing they were paranoid at best, but better safe than sorry. He could safely get them to his parents’ farm within three days in a car and two weeks on foot. He figured Dillon was as safe as anywhere, and at least he knew the land like the back of his hand. His parents already had everything they’d need to live, and they’d all be happy and safe.

  Honestly, one of the reasons he’d headed willy-nilly down to D.C. Tuesday in the first place was to evacuate Sam back to the cabin and assess the situation from there. At least he had a bolt-hole high up in the mountains that could keep them safe temporarily, if not permanently.

  But nothing like that was going to be necessary, unless a giant asteroid came out of nowhere and hit the earth, and the odds of that were astronomically high, which made him feel pretty comfortable with his plan should it be needed for any other sort of man-made or natural event. His prep was as useful in the event of a tornado slashing through the woods as it was for the end of the world.

  He hadn’t told her because she would look at him with that grin in her eyes that she got when she wasn’t taking him seriously, the one that made him want to chase her all over the house then throw her down on his bed. And he wouldn’t blame her one bit.

  But he was a good Boy Scout. And there was no reason in the world not to be prepared in case of a “what if” scenario.

  Sam closed the file folder and stretched her back, the light from the windows catching the ends of her hair, making them reddish in the morning sun. She was a truly beautiful woman, even if she didn’t see it in herself.

  She caught him watching her and smiled.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.”

  “Anything good in that book?”

  “Anything good in that autopsy file? You sounded like a French chef going over the last-minute details for an enormous meal.”

  That surprised a laugh out of her.

  “I can get lost in my work sometimes. The pathologist in Golden did a good job. He was thorough and methodical, especially since he wasn’t sure what he was dealing with. Took tons of samples, which we’ll have to unearth to have run, but with the visual findings�
�the frothy blood in the lungs, the edema, the organ engorgement—I’m willing to bet good money that Gerhardt was exposed to abrin, and that’s what killed him. We have to buy your dad a nice bottle of wine or something for pulling the pieces together. If the cattle had some of the same findings, we may have found our staging ground.”

  Xander nodded. “It was a smart catch. But then again, he is a smart man. We need to go talk to Will Crawford sooner rather than later.”

  “What do you think he knows, Xander? What is he holding back?”

  If I only knew.

  “I think he might have an idea who is behind this. And might know what he plans to do next. The more I think about our conversation yesterday, the stranger it all seems. It’s one thing to shut the site down and go dark for a while to protect yourself—that I understand. But to come back here, to be close to home...and with the connections to the Mountain Blue and Gray, who he has friends in, that tells me he’s worried. Worried about his own family.”

  Saying it out loud felt good. That’s exactly what had been bothering him, that Crawford ran back home to Daddy when things started coming off the rails. Either he knew something and was trying to protect his own, or he was afraid of an attack, and was hiding out.

  Whichever the case, he was acting pretty damn strange, and Xander felt he might be the key to all of this.

  “Why don’t we go there now, then? See what we can find out. Maybe the vet could meet us back at your folks’ house?”

  “That sounds like a great idea.” Xander stood, began to gather their things, then saw a flash out the window. He couldn’t help the wide smile splitting his face. Damn, the girl hadn’t changed a lick.

  “Sam, hold up. Here’s Carly now.”

  He watched her run lightly up the stairs and enter the restaurant, blue eyes searching for him. She was still cute, still lithe and trim and bursting with energy. When she found him, she ran across the room and launched herself at him. He had to drop his bag to catch her. Good grief. Ever the cheerleader.

  She laid a big fat kiss on him, then, still clinging, looked up at him and said, “Xander Moon, you get handsomer every time I see you.”