Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  “My God is an awesome God,” said Andy as they stood. “You can’t run from Him forever. He knows exactly where to find you.”

  Washington, DC — Present Day

  Dinah sat lost in thought for several moments.

  “So he became a Christian,” she said at length. “We know that because we found his presentation to Congress. Somewhere along the line, he seriously irritated some fundamentalist atheists.”

  “Right,” agreed Andy. “We live in a culture that considers science as holy as religion because, whether they acknowledge it or not, evolutionism requires an incredible amount of faith, and they won’t stand for anyone questioning their beliefs. If you can find out who is the most strident atheist in that organization, I think you’ll find the killer.”

  All three of them pondered that thought in silence and were startled when there was a knock at the door. Dinah was surprised to find Ferguson standing on the step, a dusting of snow on his shoulders. She was not surprised to find Ferguson eating a chocolate and jelly doughnut.

  “Hey,” he greeted as he shrugged out of his coat. He nodded toward Andy and Sandra. “I thought I’d come and see how you were doing.”

  He didn’t meet Dinah’s eye, and she knew what he was getting at — how bad had her bender been? He was clearly relieved to see her standing alive and sober and probably even more relieved to see the Colemans with her.

  “I hope everything has settled down at the office,” Dinah said. “Did Hanlon reassign you a new partner?”

  “Settled down . . . you could say that,” said Ferguson, dropping his heavy frame onto the couch. “The investigation is not considered active. I have been moved on to other cases.”

  Dinah stared at him. “Are you serious?” How could the investigation be deemed inactive? There were four reasonably fresh unsolved murders, all of whom were linked and one of whom involved a high-profile victim.

  “I’m afraid so — Hanlon dropped the news right after you left,” confirmed Ferguson.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” Dinah’s mind was whirring into action.

  “More than a little,” agreed Ferguson. “That’s why I’m here. I have to make some pretense of investigating these other cases so I simply can’t devote the time I’d like to this case. But you can, off the record and unofficially.”

  Dinah shook her head. “Ferguson, I’ve been fired from the bureau entirely. I have no badge, no gun, and no authority. How am I supposed to make people talk to me?”

  “You usually find a way,” replied Ferguson dryly. “Listen, all I’m asking for is your mind. I can keep gathering information under the radar, but I don’t have time to brainstorm. That’s where you come in.”

  Dinah considered this. “Okay, what do you have for me?”

  Ferguson produced several sheets of paper, with headshot photos. “Here’s the list of employees of the Smithsonian,” he began. “Guess who’s on security staff?”

  Dinah waited. “Who?”

  Ferguson pointed at a familiar face. “One Mr. Ivan Petesky or Mr. Peter Ivanov, whatever his real name is. Only he’s adopted a different alias in this case, Mr. Paul Petranov.”

  “Imaginative,” murmured Dinah.

  “Right. So I tell Hanlon this yesterday. I think we have a good case to obtain an arrest warrant and grill his Russian butt. I think he’s our killer, acting on the orders of someone else. He’s definitely got the hallmarks of a seasoned, military-grade, professional killer. Hanlon finally agrees with me, and gives me authorization to go to a judge for a warrant. I got one from Johnson late last night, was ready this morning to make the bust.” Ferguson then whipped out the morning newspaper with a flourish. “Look at this.”

  It was a tiny article, almost an afterthought. The caption read: Cessna down over Atlantic, all feared dead.

  Dinah read the article. At midnight last night, a privately owned Cessna took off from Boston, carrying the pilot and two passengers. Radio contact was lost an hour after take-off, the plane disappeared, and a search would be resumed in the morning to look for wreckage and survivors. However, it was feared all three had died.

  One of the passengers was Petesky/Ivanov/Petranov.

  Dinah’s heart started pounding. “You can’t be serious!” she exclaimed. She stared at Ferguson. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “For the first time in history, probably,” admitted Ferguson. “So here’s what I need you to do. This needs to be untangled. We’ve got four murders, the victims somehow caught in a Smithsonian/IAFSI scheme. The first victim is beaten and killed in a factory owned by one of the board members of the Smithsonian. The second and fourth victims are warned not to talk to the FBI by another board member. The killer is shadowy ex-military who has conveniently disappeared right around the time he’s due to be arrested. The FBI suddenly closes the case. There is a puppet master, Harris, and I want to know who that is.”

  “Who on earth would have that much power?” Dinah asked, astonished.

  “Here are some safe assumptions, I think,” said Ferguson. “It’s almost certainly a board member of the Smithsonian, acting with some level of collaboration with other board members. There has to be a connection to IAFSI. There may even be a link to the bureau. It’s just going to take some heavy-duty time and research to make it all clear.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying? All of the members on that board are high-ranking politicians or business people. We’re suggesting one of them has organized four murders, followed by the disappearance of the actual murderer, just to avoid some conflict over Christianity and evolution! That is almost unbelievable.” Dinah chewed her fingernails, her mind whirring with the possibilities.

  “Actually, it’s not,” chimed in Andy Coleman. “If you remember, the first time I spoke with you, I thought you were my usual contact within the FBI. I get so many death threats and bomb threats that my security is permanently monitored. It would take only one of these people to succeed in business or politics, assume some power, and establish their personal agenda. It would only take a little patience.”

  “Aren’t you worried?” Dinah asked him. “Given your beliefs and the fact that you’re speaking to us, surely you have to be worried about your own safety.”

  Andy shrugged. “I’ve got a choice. I could always be worried about my safety, or I could get on with life. I believe in God, so I believe that He’s got everything under control as the Bible tells me.”

  “But you’re not worried about dying?”

  “Not at all. I’ve always thought heaven would be a pretty nice place.”

  Remarkable, thought Dinah. Neither of them cared about dying — but for Dinah, the concept was fraught with pain and despair, while Andy was relaxed and trusting.

  Dinah wondered how she, too, could achieve the same frame of mind.

  Chapter 19

  Dinah made herself a strong coffee and plugged in her laptop. She was reasonably sure that due to bureaucratic inefficiency, the bureau would not yet have cut off her access to their computer systems and she wanted to make the most of it. The Colemans waved goodbye, seemingly satisfied that their charge was stable, at least for the moment.

  The trail started with Ivan Petesky/Peter Ivanov. Dinah started at the beginning of what they knew about him: that he had been an infantryman. She pulled up the military records and found that he had enlisted in the marines in the early 1980s, and had served in Beirut in 1982, giving him his first taste of war. Participation in the invasion of Panama followed in 1989 and a tour of the Gulf War in 1991. At this point, Petesky joined the Delta Special Ops and reports of his activities became non-existent. Dinah couldn’t find any further information until he resurfaced in 2000, honorably discharged.

  Dinah frowned. The information, sketchy as it was, seemed to suggest that Petesky had received extensive specialist training throughout his two decades within the armed forces that would easily translate into an ability to skillfully kill unsuspecting civilians. It wo
uld explain why Thomas Whitfield, Lara Southall, and Catherine Biscelli had allowed the killer into their offices and homes — they would have known him and trusted him as a fellow member of staff at the Smithsonian.

  Still the million-dollar question hadn’t been answered — who was instructing him? He was a trained marine, used to following orders.

  Dinah went back to the beginning of her search, when Petesky had enlisted in the marines. Perhaps she could find a common thread between his time in the military and his employment at the Smithsonian.

  She found the answer during Petesky’s tour of the Gulf in 1991. For several moments, she sat in shock, wondering if she was mistaken. It was so ludicrous that it almost made her laugh, yet it fit so beautifully that, deep down, Dinah knew she was right.

  Dinah’s thoughts were interrupted by a light tap at the front door. As she stood to open it, it slowly swung open and she realized that she hadn’t locked it after the Colemans had left earlier that morning. Still fixed on her discovery, Dinah barely looked up, assuming it was Ferguson or the Colemans.

  The sudden sensation of a much bigger person in the room finally caught Dinah’s attention. He was dressed from head to toe in black and he trained a Magnum Desert Eagle handgun on her chest.

  Dinah’s jaw dropped. “You! I thought you. . . .”

  Ivan Petesky grinned. “Dead? Yes, so does everyone else. It’s much more convenient.”

  Dinah rapidly inventoried the weapons available to her. She had been forced to hand back the standard-issue Glock when she’d been fired from the bureau, and although most agents had a personal backup weapon, she had never thought to obtain one. The thought of even the Glock in the same house as Sammy had made her feel ill.

  “What do you want?” Dinah asked.

  “I want you to come for a ride with me,” said Petesky. “We’ve got some things to sort out.”

  “I see. You think you can just order an FBI agent around?” Dinah demanded, fear giving way to anger.

  Petesky laughed. “Don’t you mean an ex-FBI agent?”

  His smug demeanor irritated Dinah. “Why don’t we trade? I’ll come with you if you answer a few questions for me.”

  “That’s an interesting proposition, but here’s the thing: the one with the gun gets to control the person without the gun. So you can forget about your proposition. I suggest you come with me before I feel compelled to take out your right kneecap.” Petesky smiled pleasantly.

  “All right, no need to get nasty,” conceded Dinah. Her mind was whirling, trying to think of ways to escape this situation.

  Petesky gestured with the gun for her to walk in front of him through the door and down to a waiting black Towncar with smoked black windows. He pressed the gun into the small of her back as he pushed her into the back seat of the car.

  “Where are we going?” Dinah demanded. “And do you really think there won’t be people looking for me within the hour?”

  “Who?” sneered Petesky. “Your FBI colleagues? They laugh behind your back. You’re nothing more than a joke to them.”

  Dinah didn’t reply, knowing he was probably right. Her heart sank.

  “So was it during your time in the Delta Special Ops when you learned how to garrote someone with a piece of wire?” she asked.

  This time, Petesky’s smile was distinctly unpleasant. “Among other things.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be better trained than to simply cut someone’s throat,” goaded Dinah. “How amateur.”

  His facial expression didn’t change.

  “I must say, it’s dedicated of you to get into plaster from neck to toe just to convince us you’d been in a car accident,” continued Dinah. “Whose idea was that? Little bit dramatic, though, don’t you think? I would’ve thought a cast on the arm would be enough.”

  Petesky aimed the gun at her knee. “You are getting on my nerves. Shut up, or I’ll take out your right kneecap first.”

  Dinah crossed her arms across her chest, stared out of the dark window, and wondered if anyone would ever see her again.

  • • • •

  The trip wound through downtown DC. Dinah stared out of the window to keep track of where they were going. As she did so, a nasty thought struck her: if her assailants didn’t care if she knew where she was being taken, they probably didn’t intend for her to remain alive. Dinah’s palms began to sweat. Think! she screamed at herself. You’re an FBI agent; surely you can think of some way to get out of this! But her mind remained blank, paralyzed by fear.

  Petesky sat in silence opposite her, the gun aimed at her without wavering and with inscrutable eyes. Dinah spent the time trying to connect the remaining pieces of the puzzle and trying to allay her fear.

  Finally, the car stopped and Petesky motioned at her to get out. Dinah obeyed and found herself in the warehouse district of the city, outside the chalk manufacturing plant of Kenneth MacIntyre. It was here that they’d found the crime scene for the murder of Thomas Whitfield, and soon, presumably, Dinah Harris. Dinah glanced around her, trying to gain an understanding of her surroundings. The district around her was dark and quiet; there seemed to be no other people around to whom she could run or shout to obtain their attention.

  Petesky seemed to anticipate her thoughts and reminded Dinah of his presence by pressing the gun against her spine. “Just walk forward,” he growled. “Nobody will be able to help you here.”

  Petesky guided her into the warehouse, past the cavernous plant floor, through to the offices located at the back of the building. Dinah looked for one thing only — doors that exited to the outside. However, it was clear that like many industrial buildings, there were few ways to get out other than the front and back doors.

  Finally, they stood outside the door of the main administration office. Petesky motioned her to open it and enter. Dinah did so and crossed the threshold into a threadbare office containing a cheap desk and chair, computer, and phone. Behind the desk sat the master puppeteer, the one who had orchestrated all four deaths.

  It was the senator from California, David Winters.

  He smiled at her. Dinah glared back.

  “Please, take a seat,” he invited, pointing at a pair of decrepit plastic chairs. His tone indicated that there wasn’t much of a choice.

  “Well,” he continued, “you are a surprise package, I must say. You’ve caused us no end of trouble, which was rather unexpected.”

  “I am an FBI agent,” Dinah replied tartly.

  The senator laughed. “Come on, let’s be honest. We all know that you used to be a highly effective agent. Vodka has taken its toll now though, hasn’t it?”

  Dinah flushed. “What were you expecting, that I couldn’t do my job?”

  David Winters shrugged. “More or less. That’s what I was told to expect.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Winters smiled as he stood and pulled out a paper bag from underneath the desk, from which he took a bottle of bourbon and an acrylic tumbler. “I think I’ll leave that until later.” He poured himself a shot of bourbon. “Would you like a drink?”

  Dinah heard the mocking tone. “No thanks.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? You turning down alcohol, I mean.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  “Actually, I do.” Winters suddenly turned serious. “Your investigation into this matter is over.”

  “No, it isn’t,” shot back Dinah. “There are four people dead. That isn’t the kind of thing I’m willing to sweep under the rug.”

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve been fired from the bureau, effective immediately.” Winters swished the liquid in his tumbler and then downed it in a smooth motion.

  Dinah didn’t reply. She didn’t want to mention Ferguson, whom she knew would continue to investigate.

  “And let’s face it, who would believe a discredited drunk?”

  Dinah decided to change the subject. “So you met your little slave over there i
n the military?” she said, gesturing over at Petesky. “I know that you were his commanding officer in Delta Special Operations forces in the Gulf War.”

  “My military record is public,” said Winters, pouring another shot of bourbon. “I have a long, distinguished career that helped me immensely in my political campaigning. The country loves a war hero.”

  “What was it about Petesky that made him stand out?”

  Winters smiled. “He kills without impunity. It’s rare to find a man so thoroughly without a conscience.”

  “So you took him under your wing?”

  “You could say that. You might also say that I helped him develop his skills.”

  “And you helped him develop his torturing skills as well?” Dinah asked sarcastically.

  Winters laughed. “He doesn’t need any encouragement in that area, I can assure you.”

  “So why? Why do four people have to lose their lives at your orders?”

  “Let’s start with the most recent, shall we?” Winters drained his drink. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Dinah shook her head.

  “Well, Catherine Biscelli was asked not to mention certain conflicts within the institution,” said Winters.

  “How much did she know? She gave all kinds of grief.”

  “Of course she did — she knew how to do her job. She really knew nothing. Originally, she was told that the board of regents and Thomas Whitfield were having some conflicts and to keep it out of the media. When Whitfield disappeared, we told her not to mention anything of the conflict to the investigators. We also told her that eventually the heat would cease and that the FBI would lose interest.”

  “That’s all she knew? She was killed because she mentioned there was conflict between the board and Whitfield?” Dinah asked skeptically.

  “We would have preferred it that nobody knew about it.” Winters shrugged. “I’m nothing if not thorough. I don’t leave loose ends.”

  “What about Damon Mason from IAFSI?”

  “He was a different proposition altogether,” admitted Winters, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “He knew everything. In fact, we nicknamed him Perry, you know, after the detective Perry Mason because he was always sniffing around. He was horrified when he found out what Whitfield was proposing to do. He organized meetings with the board of regents and wanted to know what we were going to do about it. I took charge, told him I’d take care of it. At the time, he didn’t know we were going to kill Whitfield if he refused to back down, but Mason took the news pretty well. His main concern was that this Christianity nonsense would be kept out of the Smithsonian.”