Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

A stack of papers was piled in the inbox, and he grimaced, but otherwise ignored them, checking his email instead.

  His assistant knocked on his door. “Good morning, sir. I have your messages.”

  “Good morning, DeMarcus. Or what’s left of the morning." Jim smiled and nodded to the inbox. “Looks like I’m going to busy for a while."

  “That’s an understatement. I tried to weed through it and prioritize the stack for you." The young man held up the small pile of post-it notes. “Sorry to add to your workload.” He entered and placed the pile on Jim’s desk. “Also, Special Agent Bishop was by earlier looking for you. She said it was important. I told her you’d be busy all morning, but she said you’d want to hear the news from her.”

  “What news?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Jim sighed. “Okay. Call her for me and tell her I can see her in about thirty minutes. That should give me time to at least read through my email.” He waved a hand at his stack of work. “A few minutes won’t make much difference.”

  DeMarcus nodded and left.

  Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. It was going to be a long day and the few hours of sleep he caught on the plane had done little to prepare him. Already, a nagging headache had set up shop between his eyes. What could Jessica want? If she was just coming to give him a hard time about Mark being cut loose, he didn’t have the patience for it today. She was new here, so he’d cut her some slack, but it surprised him that she would try to take advantage of their friendship to get in to see him during working hours. If others saw her jumping over heads to speak directly to him, it wouldn’t sit well with her immediate supervisors.

  His email inbox was full, of course. He skimmed the correspondence. Most had to do with the bomb, mostly congratulatory memos about preventing an attack and tragedy. When were they going to learn that preventing one wasn’t supposed to be something to gloat about like they had won the Super Bowl? It was their job. It should be business as usual.

  Jim had been briefed on the bomb, but he’d been in a meeting with the National Security Advisor in D.C. when the news had come in. On one hand, he’d been ashamed that a terrorist act had almost taken place in his city on his watch, on the other, he was proud that it had been thwarted. The meeting had ended, as everyone headed back to their offices so they could follow what was happening, and the NSA could brief the President, but not before putting Jim on the hot seat with a barrage of questions. Jim thought he’d weathered it well, considering he’d been in the same room as the NSA at the time they had both learned of the bomb.

  Jim had since heard conflicting stories on what exactly had triggered the alert, but as long as the bombing had been prevented, he figured he could sort through the details when he got back. So, now he was back, and pissed that so much crap was in his email.

  Clicking through, he sipped his coffee, grateful that at least he didn’t have to reply to most of the emails.

  At a knock, he looked up to find Jessica at his door. He glanced at his desk clock, surprised that a half hour had already passed. “Come on in, Jessica. Have a seat.” While he tried not to allow his annoyance to show, he didn’t attempt to sound overly warm either.

  “I know you just got back and you’re probably swamped, but I wasn’t sure if you had been made aware of a situation yet.”

  “A situation?" Jim leaned back in his chair and gestured to his computer. “I have a whole inbox full of 'situations’. You’ll have to be more specific.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Enlighten me. Please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jessica adopted a more formal tone. “It’s about the ‘L’ bombing attempt. Mark is the one who discovered the bomb. His discovery was filtered through the Chicago P.D. The official story is that a pedestrian spotted the object in the girder, but Mark called me about it that morning. He’d had a dream.”

  Jim absorbed the information. Jessica was right, he hadn’t known, and he was going to find out exactly why that type of information had been withheld by the police. He had kept up to date on the situation via phone and email, but there had been no mention of Mark Taylor. That struck him as odd. It also worried him about the claim of a dream even without the camera. He would have to call Mark and inquire about that.

  “Do you know exactly who investigated Mark’s suspicions?”

  She nodded. “It was my former partner, Dan. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “I do. Seems like a very competent detective.”

  “He is, which is why I was so surprised when I found out about the cover-up.”

  Jim raised a hand and said, “Hold on, just back up a minute. Leaving Mark’s name off the report is hardly a cover-up. There could be a very valid reason for it, or just an oversight.

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed and she looked like she was going to argue, but at the last minute, remembered where she was and clamped her mouth into a hard line.

  Good. He couldn’t have her bucking his authority as though they were hanging out at O’Leary’s having a few drinks. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’ll look into it.”

  After a moment, she rose and crossed to the door, taking the hint of dismissal from his tone, but she faced him again. “One more thing. I understand that I’m new here and all, but I know the Chicago Police Department, and I know there’s something about the situation that smells rotten. I’m worried for Mark.”

  She had lost the defiant expression and he saw the truth of her worry. “I understand, Jessica. I meant it when I said I’d look into the situation.”

  “I appreciate it.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, I guess I better go. I’m supposed to tag along on an arrest. My first with you guys.”

  He nodded. When she was gone, he searched his email for Mark’s name, and several memos were returned. All had been sent last night or early this morning. He had last checked his email yesterday afternoon, reasoning if there were any emergencies, he would be contacted by phone. As he read the first one, a feeling of disbelief shrouded his initial reaction. This couldn’t be right. No damn way. Jim read it again, and quickly clicked to the next memo, sure it would be a correction. “Shit!” His chair hit the wall with a thud as he scrambled to his feet, tugging his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugging into it in almost a singular motion.

  DeMarcus rushed into the room. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “No, it’s not. Get me Harris on the horn. Send it to my cell.”

  “Craig Harris? I think he just left with a group about five minutes ago. I heard they were making an arrest in connection with the bomb attempt.”

  “Yes, I only now had a chance to read the memos. Just do as I say.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Jim shouldered his way through the crowd waiting for the elevator. He didn’t have time to wait for another car. A few people started to protest until they saw who it was. They stood aside, and when the doors opened, only a few dared to enter it with him, the rest saying they would wait for the next one.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of Mark’s studio. It was surrounded by Chicago Police vehicles and a few agency cars as well. He was hoping to beat them to Mark’s, but he was too late. At least he was here to straighten the mess out. He brushed past the police line, flashing his badge when a cop approached him.

  Before he made it past the office, he was met by Craig Harris and several other agents, including Jessica. He craned his neck to look past them, searching for Mark.

  “Jim! I didn’t know you were back yet.” Craig strode up to Jim, putting his hand out. “Welcome back. You missed all the excitement.”

  Reluctantly, Jim shook the other man’s hand. “Well, apparently, I didn’t miss all of it. What’s going on?”

  “The suspect wasn’t home.”

  “What do you mean? Wasn’t he under surveillance?” It was standard procedure. At least this would buy Jim a little time to find out what was going on.

  Craig’s brow furrowe
d in irritation. “Of course. Chicago P.D. had a man out front in an unmarked car, but somehow the suspect made it past him. We’re checking it out. I feel confident we’ll get him when he returns.”

  Jim noted the circus atmosphere of flashing lights, a crowd gathering across the street to see what was going on, and knew that if Mark had just gone to run an errand, as soon as he caught sight of the commotion, he would hightail it in the other direction. Not that Jim could blame him for being a little gun-shy in crowds—not after what happened with Kern, but apparently Harris hadn’t considered that possibility yet. Disgusted, Jim almost bit his tongue in half to keep from reaming out Harris in front of the other agents. He inclined his head towards the front of the studio. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

  “Sure.” Craig pointed to the office desks and instructed the other agents, “Check the desks carefully. There might be something there. I’ll be right back.”

  Glancing around, Jim led Craig around to the side alley, seeking some privacy. When he deemed it safe to talk, he spun to face Harris. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Harris retreated a step before straightening his jacket and squaring his shoulders. “We’re here in support of the Chicago P.D. at their request. They initiated an investigation into Taylor’s activities and felt they had enough evidence to make an arrest. Due to Taylor’s name popping up on the Watch List, they requested us to assist with the arrest if necessary.”

  “Taylor shouldn’t be on the list. I personally petitioned for his removal over a year ago.”

  Shrugging, Harris said, “Maybe one of the other agencies listed him too. You know how complicated that can make the process.”

  Jim nodded, rubbing his hand down his face in frustration. Why hadn’t he checked to see if Homeland Security had also put Mark on the list? They were the most likely guilty party. This was going to be a lot harder to clear up than he had anticipated. Before he could address that problem, he had to deal with the immediate one. “Okay, never mind. I’ll deal with that later. What were the grounds for arrest today?”

  “I sent you several memos.”

  “Yes, I saw them about twenty minutes ago, but I don’t believe it for a minute. Taylor is no terrorist.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you. I know you CIA guys are more used to dealing with prisoners after they’ve been arrested, but in the FBI, we tend to follow procedure and go by the book, so grounds for arrest are SOP.”

  Jim crossed his arms, letting the slur slide for the moment. There would be plenty of time later to remind Harris that while he was indeed C.I.A., right now he was still in charge of the Chicago Field Office of the F.B.I. He wasn’t sure, though, how long that kind of arrangement would last now that Homeland Security was trying to coordinate intelligence efforts.

  Harris began ticking off the evidence on his fingers. “Taylor ‘discovered’ the bomb out of the blue. He told a CPD detective that he’d dreamed of the bombing. We have a tape of him calling in a bomb report to the police, before he even supposedly found the bomb, and we just did a preliminary search on his computer’s history. The guy really needs to learn how to cover his tracks better. Your boy had been Googling bombs and explosives just hours before he found it.”

  Jim had to concede the evidence appeared damning, but he still wasn’t convinced. “On paper, it looks suspicious, but it’s all speculation. There’s no law against internet searches about explosives, and until you’ve questioned him, you won’t be sure of the timeline. If he spotted the bomb earlier, I am aware of some very good reasons he might hesitate to share the information right away. I know this guy. He wouldn’t do something like that. Believe me, if Taylor had any predilection for this kind of activity, I would have discovered it in my dealings with him.”

  “That may be, but you weren’t here and I was in charge. Based on the evidence at hand, I have to at least bring him in for questioning.”

  “You could have run it by me first. You knew of his former status as my asset. Hell, just a few weeks ago, we had a crew out here when he was roughed up by a much more likely suspect in this case.”

  Harris glanced down the alley and took a step closer, his voice low, “What do you want me to say, Jim? If you were me, what would you have done? I have no evidence against the suspect in the other case. In fact, Jim, has anyone other than Taylor even seen the guy he claims broke into his studio and assaulted him?”

  Jim clenched his jaw, unable to give an affirmative answer, but he kept his eyes locked on Harris’.

  Harris nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t think so. How do you know he didn’t start planning this then? Perhaps he intended to frame this phantom Mohommad.”

  “Mohommad Aziz isn’t a phantom. I’ve…met the man and he does have a history with Taylor.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that, but wasn’t he exiled back to Afghanistan?”

  “Yes, but there are plenty of ways to get back in—you know that.”

  Jim heard a scuffling behind him and turned, hoping it was Mark so he could straighten the mess out, but it was Jessica, coming from the back of the building. She carried an evidence bag and marched past, not sparing either man a glance.

  Jim wasn’t fooled by her apparent detachment. Shell-shocked was the expression he was searching for. He felt a little baffled as well.

  He rubbed his forehead and turned back to Harris. “Anyway, when you find him, let me know right away. I want a chance to talk to him. And, I don’t want any violence, you hear me?”

  “If he’s armed, we’re going to have to do what we have to do. You know that.”

  “Look, I know Mark. He’s not going to be a threat to anyone. Just call me ASAP with any updates. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else? Because I’d like to oversee the collection of evidence.”

  Jim made a face and shook his head. “No. Go on. I have some things to attend to.” The second Harris rounded the corner to the front of the building, Jim pulled out his phone. “DeMarcus? I need you to pull up Mark Taylor’s file.” He slipped his pen out of his shirt pocket along with a small notepad. Pacing, he waited for his assistant to find the file. “Great. Now, could you give me his parents’ phone number?”

  Chapter 16

  Mark circled the block, trying to recall which home belonged to Mo’s sister. When he’d been here before, it had been daytime, but he recalled that a fire hydrant had been in front because he’d had to move his car when he parked beside it. The home was in a cul-de-sac in an upscale neighborhood. The houses varied in size and style, but overall, there were only a handful of styles. It oozed upper-middle class suburbia with every manicured lawn and meticulously edged sidewalk.

  He stopped a few doors down from the house and glanced at the dashboard clock. Not quite nine o’clock. The lights were still on so somebody should be awake, but he hesitated. What if the FBI had come to her already? They could be waiting inside the house for him even now. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he rationalized that the FBI would be too busy trying to track him down to worry about Mo—at least, not while Mark undoubtedly ranked much higher on their Most Wanted list. Of course, that didn’t mean the FBI wasn’t on his tail even now, but it was a chance he’d take. Plus, his was the only car parked on the street, all the others were in garages or in the driveways. The thought didn’t comfort him as it should have. It meant that someone might be watching him, wondering who he was and why he was there.

  Mark moved the car to right in front of the house and yanked the key out of the ignition. Caution was good and necessary, but paranoia would get him nowhere. He stole a look in the side view mirror and at the houses on the other side of the small circle. So far, everything was quiet. He opened the door and stepped out, doing his best to act like he belonged. As he strode up the sidewalk, he wracked his memory for the sister’s name. Something with a Z. Zoey? No. Zaira. That was it.

  A jack o’lantern decoration grinned at him from the door, and a mechanical black cat,
its back arched, hissed in the corner of the porch. Halloween had just passed. Other than Christmas, it had been his favorite holiday when he was a child. Despite the scary nature of the decorations, the ones on Zaira’s porch had the opposite effect on Mark. He drew in a deep breath and pushed the doorbell.

  A deep bark, toenails clicking and a rush of footsteps mixed with shouting and a woman trying to talk over the commotion followed the sound of the bell. Mark took a step back and turned to see if the racket had attracted any attention from neighbors. It crossed his mind to dash back to his car. This was completely insane. In his moment of hesitation, the door opened. Two little girls, one about nine, the other four, wrestled for control of the door while Zaira rushed up from behind, admonishing them that they shouldn’t open the door to strangers. He couldn’t blame her as he backed even further from the door in an attempt to appear non-threatening.

  “Girls, stay back and take Gypsy with you.” Her words were flavored with a light accent, a feminine version of Mo’s. The girls protested, but did as told. Zaira remained inside, the screen door a barrier, but she smiled as she said, “May I help you?”

  Mark cleared his throat. “Zaira? I don’t know if you remember me, but I was a friend of your brother’s.”

  Her shoulders stiffened and she pulled on the handle of the door. “Well, if you’re looking for him, you’ve come to the wrong place.” She reached behind her for the heavy storm door.

  “Wait! Please.” Mark spread his hand over his chest. “I’m Mark Taylor. We’ve met before, remember? I think it was a birthday party?”

  Zaira paused with the door partially closed as she peered out. “Mark?”

  “Yes. I went to Afghanistan with Mohommad.”

  Recognition splashed across her face and with a cry, she opened the door. “I remember you. My brother’s lies sent you to prison. Please, come in. I need to apologize for him.”

  Taken aback at the declaration, Mark didn’t enter the house until she beckoned him. He rubbed a hand over the top of his head and glanced over his shoulder before he crossed the threshold. “No need to apologize. I just…well, it’s complicated.”