The Forgotten (john puller)

by David Baldacci

  “Got here as fast as I could, Chief,” Landry said quickly.

  “Looks like the bomb was right under the car,” said Bullock. “Blew out some windows in the house too.”

  “This Lampert guy have enemies?” asked Puller.

  “Well, it appears likely he has at least one,” replied Bullock.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Came here from South Beach about five years ago. Built this place. Well, he was building it before he came here. Took the better part of three years to finish the sucker.”

  “How’d he make his money?”

  “Finance guy or something. Who the hell knows how those guys make money? They rob Peter to pay Paul.”

  “I take it no one was in the car?” asked Puller. “No.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t a car bombing enough?” said Landry. Bullock said, “Two guards were attacked. One near the rear fence, the other over near the guesthouse.” He pointed in the direction of the building. “Found them both unconscious. They were pretty burly guys. Whoever took them out was a force to be reckoned with. They finally came to. We questioned both, but they never saw who attacked them.”

  Puller gazed over at the guesthouse. “Anyone staying there currently?”

  “No,” replied Bullock.

  “Is it okay if I take a walk around the grounds?”

  “Looking for what?” asked Bullock.

  “I usually know it when I see it.”

  He left them and walked around the edge of the property. He could see men in black shirts with sidearms and MP5S lurking here and there. Security. Who got their asses kicked tonight. And Lampert would probably kick them again.

  But why blow up the car? A message? Was it a message enough?

  He looked at the main house ablaze in light.

  Then his gaze ventured to the darkened guesthouse. Why one would require a guesthouse when you lived in a mansion bigger than the White House was beyond him. But he supposed at that income bracket, there were no items of necessity, only items of desire.

  But then certain possibilities occurred to him. Why have security at the guesthouse if no one was currently there?

  He ventured to one of the windows of the structure and hit the flowerbed with his penlight.

  Nothing.

  He moved around the house, checking the dirt.

  Nothing.

  Until the third try.

  Footprints. Big ones. He held his own foot over one of the prints and came up short by a lot. He estimated a size sixteen. A big man. He took a picture of it with his cell phone.

  Maybe just a yard worker cleaning the flower beds.

  He looked through the window. Clean shot into what appeared to be a bedroom.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t as simple as a yard worker. And the print was on the house side of the flower bed. Why get so close to the building?

  The footprint didn’t look particularly recent. It was hard to say, but they must have irrigation here. So he doubted it had been here longer than a day. Otherwise the water would have dissolved the print.

  Now he needed to see what it was the person was looking at.

  CHAPTER 51

  The door was unlocked. The interior was dark. Puller used his penlight to see where he was going.

  Technically he probably wasn’t supposed to be in here, and he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he was. In his mind he figured out what room that window looked into.

  A few moments later he stepped into the room.

  Now he had confirmation that it was indeed a bedroom. If this had been a hotel room it would have been one Puller could never have afforded.

  He eyed the bed. It was made, but Puller was used to the military precision of square comers and a bed tight enough to bounce a quarter off. This bed was not to that level. And it had a discernible imperfection.

  There was a slight bump near the footboard. In the light it would have been hard to make out. In the dark, it was pretty much invisible. But not to Puller.

  He carefully lifted up the bedcovers and shined his light under it.

  It was a pair of women’s panties. He snapped a picture with his cell phone camera. Someone had made the bed in haste and forgotten this item.

  He put the bedcovers back down and glanced at the window. Perfect sightline to here.

  He noted the two glass ring marks on the nightstand and sniffed them. Some of the liquid had spilled.

  Not a big drinker, Puller still knew what it was by the smell.

  Scotch.

  It had been a favorite of his old man’s.

  He next scrutinized the bedposts and saw the scratches on one of them. Fingernails maybe? He went into the adjacent bathroom, checked out the trash can, vanity, toiletries, shower, and toilet.

  All of these things together were telling Puller a lot about what had happened in here.

  When he went back out he saw it in the front room. He shined his penlight over it.

  Someone had written on the wall in magic marker: Your time is almost up, Pete.

  Puller glanced back at the bedroom door and then his gaze returned to the writing. He took a picture of it with his cell phone camera.

  Now there was a message that was even more direct than blowing up your super-expensive car.

  He had no doubt that the message had been seen. And he was certain it would have been erased in time. Bullock had made no mention of this, so obviously Lampert, if he had been in here, didn’t want the police to know about it. And there was no reason for the police to come into the guesthouse.

  And they hadn’t.

  Just Puller had.

  He slipped out of the space and made his way back to the wreckage of the Bentley, where Landry was talking to Bullock.

  He walked over to the tech, who was poking around the car’s remains.

  “Find the source of the explosion yet?”

  “Pieces of it.” He held up a baggie with a twisted fragment of scorched metal inside. “I think this is the detonator. At least part of it.” Puller took the bag and looked at it. He had seen debris like this before. In fact, he had seen enough IEDs in the Middle East to last him a lifetime. He had also analyzed the remains of many exploded IEDs. Most bombs had common components: explosive element, detonator, timer, and power source. But different bombers had different techniques for creating their stuff; the bomb signature, it was called. Puller had gotten to where he could tell at a glance which local bomber had constructed a certain IED.

  This detonator debris, however, was not from the Middle East. At least it was not any that he recognized, and he was pretty confident he would have. So, other things being equal, the bomber had not come from that part of the world. It would have been a stretch anyway. A jihadist in Paradise, Florida? The irony was a little much.

  Bullock and Landry joined him. Bullock pointed at the evidence baggie and said, “Anything strike you about that bomb fragment?”

  “Well, I’m no ATF expert, but I’ve seen lots of Middle East bombs and this isn’t one of them. If I had to guess I’d say it was more Russian than anything else.”

  “Russian!” Bullock looked stricken by this. “We got Russians blowing up cars in the Panhandle?”

  “Not necessarily. The bomb might be Russ- ian-made, but whoever set it off doesn’t have to be. The Russians sell to whoever is willing to pay.”

  He handed the baggie back to the tech and looked up at the main house. It was the biggest home he had ever seen. The guesthouse had been about four thousand square feet. He couldn’t tell how many square feet this was. Perhaps they didn’t use square feet when measuring it. Perhaps they used acres. And there were about forty-four thousand square feet in an acre.

  Peter Lampert must do quite well for himself.

  But his time was coming, at least according to the writing left in the guesthouse. He had already decided not to tell Bullock and Landry about it. He shouldn’t have gone in the guesthouse, and by telling them he wou
ld have to admit to what he’d done.

  Puller pointed at the house. “You questioned them yet?”

  “Was just going to,” said Bullock. “You want to sit in?”

  Puller stared at him for a moment, suddenly disquieted by how nice the chief was being to him. Even Landry raised her eyebrows at this offer.

  “I’ll just be part of the peanut gallery.”

  “Suit yourself. But if something occurs to you, speak up. With all the crap that’s happening I’m thinking I need all the help I can get. Otherwise I’m going to be the former police chief of Paradise.”

  They walked inside to question Peter J. Lampert and company.

  CHAPTER 52

  The first thing Puller noticed was that Peter Lampert was fully dressed. White slacks, dark shirt, and sandals. But his hair was slightly damp, so the guy had showered.

  Showered at this hour of the night?

  Maybe after having sex?

  He wondered who else had showered.

  Lampert was sipping a drink from a bar that spanned one entire wall of a room that seemed as big as an airplane hangar but was decorated to look like Buckingham Palace.

  He came forward and held out his hand to Bullock. “Nice of you to come personally, Chief,”

  he said in a pleasant voice.

  Bullock nodded and shook his hand. “Sure thing, Mr. Lampert.”

  Lampert’s gaze flitted across Landry and then came to rest on Puller. He gazed up at him as he jiggled the ice in his cut crystal glass. “And who do we have here?”

  “John Puller,” said Puller. “Army CID.” Bullock said quickly, “He’s just here observing, Mr. Lampert.”

  Lampert kept his gaze on Puller for another few seconds and then smiled and finished off his drink.

  “You’re very calm for someone who just had his car blown up,” said Puller, who had decided to step out of the peanut gallery.

  Lampert held up the empty glass. “That’s what thirty-year-old Macallan is for. Replenishes the spine in no time.”

  Scotch, thought Puller. Like in the guesthouse. Then it just came down to who did the underwear belong to?

  Two more people came into the room, a man and a woman. They looked like models for Ralph Lauren, all-American with nary a flaw. The man was in shorts and a T-shirt. The woman had on a light blue thigh-length silk robe. They apparently had been in bed when it had happened. Guy threw on whatever was handy. Lady stepped into her robe.

  The woman’s hair wasn’t damp.

  “James Winthrop and Christine Murdoch,” Lampert said by way of introduction. “James works with me and Chrissy is his, uh, significant other.” He gave Murdoch a little smile and then turned his attention back to Puller.

  Puller checked out both of them closely. Winthrop looked scared, Murdoch simply intrigued. That was miles apart on the emotional barometer, and Puller wondered why the man and his “significant other” would be so dissimilar in their reactions to tonight’s events. After all, a bomb was a bomb.

  “Ofcourse we heard the explosion,” said Murdoch.

  “What time was that?” asked Bullock.

  “I looked at my watch when I jumped out of bed,” she replied. “It was nearly a quarter past one.”

  Landry wrote this down in her notebook.

  Bullock asked, “Did either of you see or hear anything unusual before or after the explosion?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Bullock gazed over at Lampert. “Where were you when it happened?” he said.

  “I was in my room. My wife is out of town. I was reading a book and then all hell broke loose. Before that I didn’t see or hear anything unusual.”

  Puller didn’t know if Landry and Bullock had noticed the man’s wet hair. Or wondered why Lampert was, unlike his guests, fully dressed.

  “Did your security personnel see anyone?” asked Bullock.

  “Not a thing, apparently. I thought they were the best in the business. Right now I feel like firing all of them and starting over.”

  He glanced at Puller. “Army CID?”

  Puller nodded.

  “And before that?”

  “Ranger.”

  “Then you could be a first-rate security person. Whatever Uncle Sam’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

  Puller had no idea if the guy was being serious or not, but he said, “Sorry, doesn’t work that way.”

  “Anything works, if you want it badly enough.”

  “Yeah,” said Puller. “You have any idea who could have done this?”

  “I’ve had a business career filled with ups and downs. I’ve made enemies.”

  “Screwing someone in business usually leads to a lawsuit, not a bombing,” replied Puller.

  “Who says I screwed anyone?” Lampert said, dropping his friendly demeanor.

  Murdoch broke in. “I think he was just speaking in generalities, Peter.”

  Lampert kept his gaze on Puller. “Is that what it was? Generalities?”

  “Let’s assume it was. Anyone on that list who would blow up your car?”

  “There might be.”

  Bullock said, “We’ll need those names.” “Okay.”

  To Puller, Lampert looked uninterested by the whole thing. Most people who had had a bomb go off in their front yard would have been a little more stressed out. Lampert was either really stupid or there was a lot more to all of this. And Lampert didn’t seem stupid.

  “Anything else?” asked Lampert. “I need to get some sleep.”

  “We’ll continue our investigation outside,” said Bullock. “And we’ll follow up tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” Lampert replied.

  Bullock and Landry turned to leave through the front door.

  Murdoch and Winthrop turned to go back to their rooms.

  Puller stood right where he was.

  The light blue robe was quite tight. From behind Puller could see the outline of Murdoch’s underwear. And the panties in the guesthouse seemed a little small to be hers. Not conclusive of course, but interesting nonetheless.

  He glanced over and saw Lampert staring at him, like he had just read Puller’s mind.

  “You have any other guests staying with you, Mr. Lampert?” he asked.

  A thin smile spread across Lampert’s face. “Nope. Just the hired help.”

  Bullock and Landry had turned back when this exchange started. They both stared with puzzled looks at Puller.

  “Just the hired help? Thanks, Mr. Lampert, that’s all I needed to know.”

  Lampert smiled and held up his glass. “I’m sure it is, Mr. CID. I’m sure it is.”

  Puller walked out.

  CHAPTER 53

  Another eighty had been delivered tonight. Just like clockwork.

  Four boats’ worth.

  They looked just like the last shipment. Destroyed.

  Mecho watched from a different spot tonight. He did not like patterns. Patterns could get you killed. He had no reason to believe that anyone suspected he was here. But he had no reason to think they didn’t either. He imagined these men lived their lives full of suspicion.

  Just as he did.

  After the bomb went off at Lampert’s house they would have to proceed with caution. Calling off tonight’s shipment might have been tempting for them, but apparently the allure of a mountain of dollars was too much. And the boat was probably already on its way when the Bentley had been blown up.

  So the show went on.

  These folks wore the color-coded clothing of the previous group. As he observed them Mecho concluded that tonight was heavy on drug mules and prostitutes, by far the most profitable. The simple laborers, the ones who silently mowed grass in nice southern suburbs or mutely hefted cartons in warehouses in the Midwest, brought the least amount of money.

  But the profit margins were still excellent, just not off the scale like those associated with the drugs-and-hookers revenue streams.

  The fourth RIB turned and headed back out to the mother
ship.

  Mecho turned his attention to the truck in which the eighty people had been placed. The rear door came down and was bolted shut. The back of the truck would be soundproofed, of course. No screams would be heard, though Mecho imagined the prisoners were probably too terrified to utter a sound.

  He hustled to his scooter and climbed aboard. When the truck started off with its two-SUV motorcade, Mecho fell in behind it, keeping about eight hundred yards back. He did not worry about losing the vehicles. He had placed a tracking device on the underbelly of the truck while the first shipment of passengers was arriving on the beach. The guards had made the mistake of moving away from the vehicles to draw nearer to the beach, never thinking that leaving their rear flank exposed would be a problem.

  Yet it was a problem, a big one. But one man’s problem was another man’s opportunity.

  They traveled east for four miles, their route gradually leading away from the Gulf as they did so.

  The destination was not surprising: a warehouse in the middle of a decrepit industrial park. This was far away from the tourist traps and nowhere near the pristine white beaches or the emerald green waters.

  This had the look and stench of the real world. A world where people toiled away for crap wages doing shit work and wondering when their ship was going to come in.

  Mecho understood that very well. He had wondered that very same thing. Only far away from here. A universe away from here, in fact.

  Where is my damn ship?

  Well, maybe it was a RIB with human cattle on it.

  After the truck drove through the open overhead door of the warehouse the door rattled down behind it. One SUV had driven in with the truck. The other had stayed outside. Mecho had a good idea what was happening inside the warehouse.

  It was like U.S. Customs’ processing in a way, and in a way the farthest thing from it. The folks in the truck were being led off, dressed in different clothes, and given certain documentation, a bit to eat, a few ounces of water to drink. They were being told things. Things that would further demoralize their spirits.

  Such as, “You will do exactly as we say.”