“Will there be anything else, Mr. Stevenson?” she asked as she finished smoothing her skirt. Her blouse was still unbuttoned and he could see the dark lace of her unfastened bra. The stimulation still lingered in his groin, but he shook his head.
“No. Go get cleaned up,” he said.
She smiled. The lipstick had smeared over her white dentition and that ruined the image for him. He turned his head in disgust and told her. “Go brush your teeth, for Christ’s sake.”
Muttering an apology, she hurried to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. Nelson stood on the other side, his head cocked and a wide grin on his face.
He nodded to Callahan as she slipped by him.
Stevenson mentally considered whether or not it was time to trade her in for a newer model.
Nelson stayed in the doorway and watched the retreating woman’s backside, the smile still stretched over his face. Finally he turned and entered, closing the door behind him.
“How did it go?” Stevenson asked.
“Mission accomplished.” Nelson’s smile twitched a bit and Stevenson felt a twinge of consternation.
“What is it?” he asked.
His executive assistant’s smile faded a bit more then he motioned at the empty chair.
Stevenson nodded. “Give it to me now. Straight and no sugar-coating.”
After settling heavily into the chair, Nelson leaned back and heaved a sigh.
“Okay, here’s the good news. It’s all over the news. Montgomery County police are investigating the multiple homicides of a prominent attorney, his secretary and his client. The possible assailant was found in a rented vehicle, dead from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound.” He paused and let the smile creep back again. “Additionally, and unbeknownst to the authorities, the Talon encrypted the files on Powers’s computer and got the paper files concerning Alocore and Oakley.”
“What about that damn reporter?”
“He showed up after the fact and ran like a scared little bitch.”
“We’re going to have to deal with that irritating prick next.”
Nelson’s smile looked weak.
Stevenson stared at the man, saying nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The man inhaled and started again. “All that said, there were a couple minor glitches.” He waited a beat. “The Talon took out two security guards. Left them in the ladies’ room.”
Stevenson considered that, then laughed. “So?”
Nelson laughed along, but it was a nervous laugh.
Stevenson picked up on it. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
The corners of Nelson’s mouth drew downward. “Two of Quarry’s crew got killed.”
Stevenson frowned. “How the hell did that happen?”
“They’d just removed the video surveillance recording equipment. Apparently two plainclothes cops showed up unexpectedly and there was a shoot-out.”
“The surveillance equipment?” Stevenson’s frown deepened. “Shit.”
Nelson held up his hands in a placating gesture. “There was nothing to it. I set it up so that it only recorded and transmitted stuff when our equipment van was in the parking lot to activate and receive the active transmission.”
“It’s still going to look suspicious.”
“Not really,” Nelson said. “So the cops recovered some surveillance stuff. I mean, there’s no way that it can be traced back to us.”
“And the two dead idiots?”
“Quarry assured me that they weren’t carrying anything traceable.” He paused and smiled apologetically. “Now, it is inevitable that they’ll eventually be identified. I’m sure their prints are on file from their military service, but again, there’s no connection to Stevenson Dynamics.”
“Building’s surveillance cameras?”
“The Talon said he erased everything. Put a bullet in it, too. Thought it would look less suspicious if it was made to look like Chandler did it and then decided to commit suicide.”
Stevenson mulled things over for several seconds and then asked, “Plainclothes cops? You sure?”
“Two white guys in a black Dodge. What else could they be?”
“We’ve got to do some damage control here. You’re sure those two dead idiots won’t be tracked back to us?”
“I’ve already taken steps to create employment files terminating their association with Stevenson Enterprises as of the take-over date of Alocore. It’ll look like we fired them a long time ago.”
“But how will that justify them being there in the first place?” Stevenson compressed his lips. “Damn it.”
“Our best bet is to say we fired them and as far as we know, Oakley hired them as bodyguards after that. He was getting a lot of death threats and—” Nelson flashed another grin “—it’s obvious that depressed widower Tom Chandler was gunning for him.”
“Prepare a press statement saying that this was why we fired Oakley. For jacking up the prices of the cancer drugs and causing undue hardship on American families.”
Nelson gave a quick nod. “And that’ll work in our favor once we release the anti-Keller Virus vaccine. I can see the headlines now—Benevolent Millionaire Stevenson Releases Virus Vaccine at Low Price. You’ll be the man who saved America from the pending epidemic. Not only will it make you richer, but getting a Cabinet appointment will be a no-brainer. And from there...”
“Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched. We’ve still got some loose ends to tie up.”
“Bellamy?”
“Among others,” Stevenson said. “We’ve got that idiot reporter and that FDA bitch to think about, too.”
“Okay. Who’s first on the hit parade?”
Stevenson leaned back in the chair. “Roy Bellamy is a liability. We should’ve gotten rid of him a long time ago.”
“Send the Talon to the Bahamas on one of our private planes?”
Stevenson shook his head. “Have Quarry and his guys handle it. Make it look like the work of some local island thugs.”
“Will do,” Nelson said. “How about the reporter and the woman?”
Stevenson smiled with the assurance of a coach who had all the bases covered. “That’s why I’m keeping the Talon in reserve.”
8
Police Headquarters
Montgomery County, Maryland
After showing their Department of Justice IDs to the desk sergeant, Bolan and Grimaldi were granted access to the second floor of the building, which housed the investigative unit. As they were being escorted down a long hallway, Bolan heard someone call out to him, using his Matt Cooper alias. He turned and saw Special Agent Karen Jefferson standing by a vending machine and holding a cup of steaming coffee.
She smiled and said, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I’d have to say the same thing,” Bolan replied. He waved his thanks to his police escort, who pointed to an open door across the hall. Bolan and Grimaldi walked over to Jefferson. “We were just on our way to talk to someone regarding the Oakley-Powers murders.”
Jefferson fitted a dollar bill into the machine and held out her hand. “Coffee? It’s on me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Grimaldi said, stepping between her and Bolan and then pressing a button. “In case you don’t remember, I like mine black because I’m sweet enough.”
Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “I remember, all right.”
Grimaldi shrugged and lifted the plastic lid to withdraw his filled cup.
She looked to Bolan, who shook his head. Jefferson pressed the appropriate buttons and watched as another cup fell into place.
“You must really be thirsty,” Grimaldi said. “Or have one hell a caffeine habit.”
“One’s for the investigator briefing
me,” she said. “May I ask why DoJ is interested in the Oakley case?”
“We’re investigating a possible terrorist connection,” Bolan said.
“Terrorists?” Her dark eyes widened. “What makes you think that?”
“We’d rather not say until we’ve looked at the evidence. We hoped to get a look at the crime scene photos and read the reports before it is determined whether Homeland gets involved.”
“I was just getting that briefing myself,” she said, motioning for them to follow her. She walked down the hall toward another open door. As they passed the first door that their escort had pointed to, they saw it was filled with officers in civilian clothes listening to a man standing by a lectern in front of a whiteboard. The board was filled with diagrams and writing.
“That’s the task force in there,” Jefferson said, nodding toward the room. “But I’ve got all the particulars in here.” She stopped in front of the second open door and motioned them in. “It should save you some time. This is Detective Rudy Haggerty.”
Bolan nodded and followed her inside. The seated man looked up from a table awash with paperwork and color photographs. He was middle-aged, with the rugged build of a boxer. His grayish hair was combed straight back and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He stood and shook hands as Jefferson made the introductions.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Haggerty said. “Did I overhear something about a terrorist connection?”
“Possibly,” Bolan replied. “Can you give us a run-down of what happened?”
“Well.” Haggerty paused and took a sip of the coffee. He set the cup down and picked up a sheaf of color photos. “One picture’s worth a thousand words.”
He set the first two photos on the tabletop. “This is the Pittsfield Building, where the crime occurred.” He flipped to another set of pictures of two dead men in what appeared to be blue uniforms. “Apparently the assailant lured the two security guards on duty into the ladies’ washroom on the first floor, where he shot both of them.” Haggerty tapped the photo of one of the dead men. “This one in the back of the head and the other one in the mouth.”
“Brutal,” Grimaldi said, sipping his coffee.
Haggerty took another swallow of his and set the cup down again, shuffling through more photos. “It looks like the perpetrator stole their keys and locked the two bodies in the washroom. He then went to the security office and destroyed the video recording device.” Haggerty held up his hand, extended his index finger and mimicked a gunshot.
“So there’s no video available that could shed light on the exact sequence?” Bolan asked.
Haggerty shook his head.
“What about the parking garage?” Bolan asked.
“That was on the same system.” Haggerty shook his head again. “Nothing.”
Bolan exchanged a quick, surreptitious glance with Grimaldi.
“It seems that the shooter then went upstairs to the sixth floor,” Haggerty said, setting new prints on the tabletop showing an office and the body of a dead female. “Where he went into the office of attorney Clifford J. Powers and shot Ms. Stella Rickson, the executive assistant.” He pointed to the photo of some blond hair stained with blood. “She took two in the chest and one to the back of the head.”
“Overkill?” Grimaldi asked. “Or maybe the guy doesn’t like women.”
Haggerty shrugged, placing the next set of photos in view. “He put one into the computer under her desk and then went into Powers’s office. It looks like he shot the attorney twice in the chest, then took his time pumping bullets into Mr. Simon Oakley.”
Haggerty placed four photographs on top of the others. “This looks to have been personal. Oakley was shot a total of five times. Once in the leg when he was likely sitting in the chair, once in the groin, once in the arse when he was in a kneeling position on the floor in front of the desk—based on the blood spatter—and then twice in the back of the head.”
“Somebody wanted that SOB to suffer a little,” Grimaldi said.
“Or a lot,” Haggerty added. He flipped to a new set of photos showing the parking garage that Bolan was all too familiar with, although the Executioner showed no outward sign of recognition.
“Here’s where it gets a bit tricky,” Haggerty said. “The body of Thomas Chandler, of Waukegan, Illinois, was found in a rental car here on the sixth floor of the parking garage adjacent to the building. Chandler was dead from what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” Haggerty leaned his head back and put his extended index finger under his chin. “He was holding a Beretta M-9 A3, with a sound suppressor attached. The magazine had three rounds left in it, and appears to be the murder weapon for all five of the victims.”
“A Beretta M-9 A3?” Bolan queried. “May I see a picture of it?”
Haggerty nodded, shuffled through the prints and withdrew two. One showed the bloody, semi-recumbent body of Chandler holding the weapon inside a vehicle. The other was of the weapon itself, a brownish-colored semi-auto pistol with an extended sound suppressor attached to the barrel.
“Anything on the weapon?” Bolan asked.
Haggerty shook his head. “We’re trying to run it down through ATF, but nothing so far.”
“How about this Chandler guy?” Bolan asked.
Haggerty nodded. “Plenty. His wife died of cancer a little over a year ago, back when Oakley was running a drug company called Alocore Incorporated. The son of a bitch kept raising the prices of the cancer drugs the wife was taking, and Chandler couldn’t keep up trying to pay for them.” He paused to shake his head. “The poor bastard lost everything he had—house, car, everything—and then his wife died. He blamed Oakley. Sent letters to the company threatening him.”
“That’d be enough to send me over the edge, too,” Grimaldi said. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear of his demise.”
Bolan’s mind flashed back to seeing Chandler’s body in the vehicle immediately after the shooting. Something was gnawing at him, but he knew he had to tread carefully. He couldn’t afford to let it slip that he and Grimaldi had been there.
“He looks to be a good size,” Bolan noted, tapping the photo of Chandler.
Haggerty nodded. “Six-three. Two-sixty. Why?”
Bolan ignored the question. “So you’re looking at a revenge theory?”
Haggerty smirked. “That would seem to wrap it up with a pretty little bow, wouldn’t it?” He glanced at Jefferson, who had been sitting silently throughout the session. “But as I was telling your associate here, before you came in, there are some unanswered questions.”
“Such as?” Bolan asked.
“We found two more bodies in the garage. Shot to death in what appears to be a running gun battle. Shell casings from at least four different weapons were recovered.”
“This related to the other murders?” Grimaldi asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Pretty damn coincidental if it isn’t,” Haggerty said. “We haven’t ID’ed the two victims yet, but it appears that at least two other shooters were present and killed them.
“We found the keys to an Altima nearby, but it came back no record on file. The lab boys are going over it, but we haven’t definitely tied the two dead guys to it yet.”
“What types of weapons were used?” Bolan asked.
“All 9 millimeter,” Haggerty said. “From the twist on the expended shell casings, we’re thinking one was a SIG. The other possibly a Berretta. The two dead guys had Glocks. Recovered those at the scene.”
“You mean whoever shot those dudes left their guns?” Grimaldi said, his tone obviously straining for credulity. “Sounds kinda fishy.”
“Who was the complainant?” Bolan asked.
“Appears to be some guy by the name of George Perkins,” Haggerty said. “He refused to identify himself, but the Caller ID trac
ed back to his cell phone. He was screaming about dead people, then took off prior to the officers’ arrival, claiming to be afraid for his own safety.”
“I mentioned that we’re familiar with Mr. Perkins,” Karen Jefferson interjected. “I’ve been trying to contact him, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”
“We’re looking to interview him,” Haggerty stated, “but we haven’t been able to locate him.”
“Maybe we can help with that,” Grimaldi said. “We’re pretty good at tracking people down.”
“Any idea why he may have been at the scene?” Bolan asked.
“It’s my guess he was there to interview Oakley,” Jefferson returned. “And walked in after the fact.”
“It sure would be nice to know that guy’s current whereabouts,” Grimaldi said, winking surreptitiously at Bolan.
The Executioner kept his expression neutral, but he was certain Jefferson had noticed the wink.
“Sure would,” Haggerty said. “I just wish we could figure if and how the shoot-out in the parking garage ties into all this.”
This was getting too close for comfort to suit Bolan. He decided to change the subject. “Let me see the picture of that Beretta M-9 A3 again.”
Haggerty shuffled through the pictures and set that one down on top of the pile.
“A Vertec grip,” Bolan said. “Designed for someone with small hands.”
“The dynamite comes in small packages,” Grimaldi said, mimicking a French accent.
“What are you two talking about?” Jefferson asked.
“Remember we mentioned a possible terrorist connection?” Bolan asked. “This scene bears a strong similarity to another one we observed.”
“Like déjà vu all over again,” Grimaldi added.
Stevenson Dynamics
Fairfax County, Virginia
STEVENSON WAS ON the gymnasium basketball court once more, practicing his jump shots. A metal, wire container filled with balls was next to him, and two employees, his gym attendants, stood in staggered positions under the basket. A pretty woman, also dressed in a tailored sweat suit, stood off to the side with several white towels draped over her arm. So far he’d sunk half a dozen shots without a miss. He’d found the zone.
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