Deadly Star

by CJ Petterson

  “The guy is probably sitting right next to ours. We’ll send out sweepers, but there’s no way Mirabel could know what Itoh’s nanosat is doing up there.”

  “She wouldn’t have to know. Think about it, Marshall. She’s working on plant DNA … genomics … specifically, the rice genome.”

  Marshall whistled softly. “That’s what triggered the call to Saint John. Who said there’s no such thing as coincidence?”

  “Must’ve been you. Three more pieces of info: Saint John’s handler is here,” Sully said, “and a background check gave up big money deposits into bank accounts for Evan Thompson and Ray Briggs. The sheriff is dead and no longer a threat, but Mirabel’s astronomy partner has all the earmarks of having crossed to the dark side.”

  “What do you need to ID Saint John’s handler?” Marshall asked.

  Sully checked his watch to time the call. “A photo would be nice.”

  A white sedan appeared in the rearview. Sully tensed until he identified it as an old Mercury.

  “What’s going on?” Marshall asked when Sully went silent.

  “False alarm, but I need to get to Mirabel … now.”

  “Good luck.”

  Sully hung up and goosed the Jeep. Mirabel’s driveway was empty when he got there.

  “Mirabel should have beaten me home,” he muttered. “Tick, tick, Marshall. We’re running out of time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A white car cut across Mirabel’s path and stopped in front of her. “Evan’s killer,” she gasped. She braked and yanked the wheel to avoid a crash. The driver was out of his car and sprinting toward the pickup before the truck slid sideways to a stop.

  Ka-whack! Something long and dark slammed against her windshield. She threw up an arm to deflect a spray of glassy pellets. The windshield cobwebbed inward but held.

  The man lunged for the locked door. Heart pounding, she stomped on the gas. The pickup screeched forward, yanking the handle out of his hand. She pushed her back against the seat and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  “Go, go, go, go, go,” she yelled at the four-cylinder engine. If I can make it to the house, Sully said he would be there.

  Mirabel careened around the corner, sucked in a breath — children played in the street. She twisted the wheel. The pickup rocked over the shoulder, cut a swath through high weeds in a vacant lot, and thudded sideways against a fence in the gravel alley. The engine flooded out and died.

  “No!” she screamed and looked over her shoulder toward the lot. The Mercedes was bouncing across the field.

  She pumped the gas pedal, held it to the floor, and kept cranking the ignition until it sent gasoline charging through the carburetor. The pickup roared to life with a billow of black smoke. She double-clutched, shoving the shift rapidly into second, then third. The rear end fishtailed and kicked up a thick cloud that obscured the Mercedes with dust.

  She grappled with the wheel, swung into a wide turn at the corner. An oncoming car left the road, and the pickup skidded to the other side. The Mercedes was a growing reflection in her rearview as she swerved in and out of traffic.

  The pickup slid onto the blacktop of her street and splintered a mailbox. Her tires burned a set of black lines on the asphalt, gained traction, and she continued the race toward the house.

  Mirabel spotted Sully’s Jeep backing out of her drive headed in the opposite direction. She beat a frantic staccato on the horn, and she saw his brake lights come on. “Yes!”

  In the rearview, she saw the Mercedes spin a wide one-eighty. Tires smoking and screaming, it bounced over a curb and vanished around the corner.

  She gasped out a laugh and pushed the palm of her hand hard across the corner of her eye, erasing tears.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, Mirabel sat on her couch within the curve of Sully’s arm, clutching a throw pillow. “It happened so fast. I don’t know if I can remember everything.”

  “It’s okay. Take your time. The guy who got out of the car. Start with what he looked like.”

  She exhaled through pursed lips. “Less than average height. Olive complexion. Mirrored sunglasses.”

  “How about his clothes?”

  “All black. Everything. From his cap to his shoes,” she said and waved her hand above her head.

  “What else?”

  She took another deep breath. Mental pictures appeared. “Black hair in a stiff pigtail, Japanese style, sticking out from under the cap.”

  “What do you know about Japanese-styled hair?”

  “The Japanese judo master at the dojo downtown wears a pigtail like that.”

  “Judo master?”

  “We had dinner.”

  She saw Sully make a funny move with his mouth and sighed. “Good grief. The man’s in his seventies.” An imaginary itch in her palm attracted her attention.

  “Did I say anything?”

  “No, but I could tell you were thinking.”

  “What’d the guy use to smash your windshield?”

  “A tire iron.”

  “Anything else stand out?”

  “He was really quick for an old guy.”

  “What makes you think he was old?”

  “His hands.” She examined her own. “They were small and gnarled. Ancient-looking. No, wait. They were scarred.”

  “You did good,” Sully said and squeezed her shoulder.

  She knew she’d done better than good. She’d survived. She’d been terrified but acted on her fear. Exhilarated, she relaxed enough to grin.

  “I don’t recognize him from your description,” he said, “but I think he’ll be back.”

  “Then why did he turn and run?”

  He leaned forward, rested both elbows on his knees, and looked back into her eyes. “They don’t like dealing with witnesses they can’t eliminate easily.”

  “They?”

  “From your description, I’d say he had on a chauffeur’s uniform. It’s likely there was at least one passenger in the rear seat.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know … yet.”

  “I’m going to make a pot of coffee.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. “Hold on a sec. I need to tell you something.”

  “Something about the mysterious nanosatellite?”

  He shook his head. “About Ray.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “There’s not a lot of money to be had in this town, even if he is the only orthodontist for more than fifty miles.”

  She saw him hesitate and understood. “Don’t look so sad. I think I know where you’re going.”

  “Have you ever wondered how he keeps his head above water?”

  “I asked him about that once. His answer was, ‘Just barely.’ When he told me he paid cash for the BMW, I knew something was … not right. I kind of hoped he’d come into some inheritance.”

  Sully followed her into the kitchen. She plugged in the coffee maker and dropped in a paper filter. “But I guess I knew better. If he’d inherited some huge fortune from a great Aunt Annie or won the lottery, everyone in town would have heard him crowing.”

  “So you suspected he was into something illegal?”

  “Give me credit for a little common sense. I was going to talk to him about his new windfall, but I was waiting for the right moment.” She set up the pot with coffee and water, toggled it on, and turned around in time to see him make a face. “I know, I know. There is never a right moment. I almost put it together at the hospital, and when you and Frank questioned why he was still alive … But I thought — oh, I don’t know what I thought. Maybe Mafia money laundering.”

  She hated the question she had to ask. “He didn’t
have anything to do with the plane crash, with Dan’s death, did he?”

  “He’s involved. We don’t know how deep.”

  “Tell me. How much did he get paid? How much was Dan’s life worth? Never mind.” She waved off an answer. “I don’t want to hear.” The coffee pot stopped making noises, and she pulled two mugs out of the cabinet.

  He took them from her. “Evan — ”

  “What about Evan?”

  “On the same payroll.”

  “He … Oh, Sully.” She let a moan escape. “Why?”

  He poured coffee into a mug and handed it to her then filled the other for himself. He took a sip before he answered. “Not sure yet.”

  “Maybe Saint John threatened to kill Evan, or maybe Evan’s wife, unless he looked the other way. Maybe he needed the money. I’d heard Darlene has to have some kind of surgery. He’d do something like that to protect Darlene, wouldn’t he?”

  Sully shrugged a shoulder. “He would.”

  Her body stiffened; her anger boiled over. “Why do people like Saint John exist? When will someone decide it’s time to take out that bag of garbage?” She inhaled audibly through an open mouth, then snapped her teeth together and stared unseeing into the steam rising out of her coffee mug. “What are we going to do now?”

  “We aren’t going to do anything. I’m taking you to a safe house.”

  “Come on, Sully. We’ve already had this go-around. I don’t need anyone to babysit me.”

  He scrubbed his brow. “It’s not about anyone babysitting you. It’s about you staying alive.” His eyes locked on hers.

  She held his glare for a moment then blinked first. “You’re right,” she said. “Where is this safe house?”

  “Sacramento.”

  “If you want my help on that nanosatellite sighting, I can’t be that far away. Why can’t I stay at your house? Isn’t it safe?”

  “I don’t have all the high-tech security systems Sacramento does.”

  “I thought Frank was there.”

  “He is. He’s using my place to do background checks,” he admitted. His cellphone rang. He dug it out of its case, flipped it open, and looked at the number display before he answered. “Hey, Pete … Where? … You’re the man. Get it to Frank. He’s got a facial recognition program he can run on it. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Great work. Talk with you later.”

  “What?”

  “Pete thinks he might have some photos of the occupant in the back seat of that Mercedes. One of his snitches pointed him to the car stashed inside a shipping container behind the strip mall on Main. Whoever parked it there had to cross the bank’s parking lot to get to the street. In full view of the security cameras on the corners of the building. They disabled one, but the other wasn’t visible from the ground. They never saw it. Pete got the bank manager to give up the tape. That’s where you can help. Once Frank gets a copy, he’ll need to get to work identifying our mystery man. You could take over his background checks.”

  “I’ve never done that kind of thing before.”

  “Frank will teach you everything you need to know.”

  • • •

  Mirabel twirled in the computer chair and looked around the spare bedroom of Sully’s home. The room was empty save for a couple of desks that sat amidst a tangle of black and gray umbilical cords feeding electricity to two computers, two printers, a scanner, and a fax machine. Vinyl blinds covered the windows, their narrow slats drawn tight against the outside world. She stopped spinning in front of a laptop that rested at the edge of one desk and peeked around a small table lamp. Frank Griebe sat in front of an identical setup at the other desk. He was in obvious discomfort. Every so often, his frown deepened, his pale face turned ashier, and he’d grunt softly and gingerly change positions.

  “How does that facial recognition program work?” Mirabel asked, pointing at his computer screen.

  “The software uses algorithms to compare specific points of a two-dimensional photograph, such as the eyes, to a database,” he said without looking up as he dug through a short stack of file folders. “Sometimes the FRP can identify a person in seconds.”

  “I almost understand what you just said. Did you get it from the CIA?”

  He shook his head. “Sully got it from a friend in Vegas. The casinos use it to identify cheaters that have been banned from the tables.”

  She laughed. “That’s so perfect. He has some of the wildest connections. What database are you using to reference those ‘specific points’?”

  “Kind of borrowing one.”

  “You hacked into the FBI?”

  “Naw.” The sides of his mouth curled downward. “Their security is way too tough for me.” Then he looked up, his face sporting a Cheshire cat grin. “CIA.” He picked up a letter-sized manila file folder. “Here are the background checks I’ve done.” He fanned a handful of documents and pointed to a list of Internet addresses on the first sheet. “All you’ll have to do is access these same sites and put in another name.”

  “That I can do.” She opened the folder and ran her finger down the names on the page. “What did you find on Ray?”

  “He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. Your name is on that list.” He pointed to the page in her hand. “Want to see what I found?” He took the folder out of her hands and flipped through more pages. “Here.” He held out a stapled packet of documents.

  Her eyebrows went up as she scanned through the pages, and she whistled softly. “You can get this kind of information on anybody?” He nodded. He had checked her phone bills, bank statements, and tax returns. She saw copies of her college grades, her birth certificate, marriage certificate … “Where’s the divorce decree?”

  “Keep looking. It’s there.”

  She separated the pages and lingered a few seconds staring at a copy of the judge’s dated signature on the divorce papers before she started browsing again. Griebe’s notes of conversations with neighbors and acquaintances startled her. “Interviewing my friends is a bit much, don’t you think?”

  “Nope.”

  “This is really scary … the stuff the government, you, or any other hacker has access to. All of this better tell you I’m clean. It does, doesn’t it?”

  “I do have one question. You live pretty good on such a small income. How do you do that?” When her mouth flew open, he chuckled and handed her a sheet of paper with a handwritten list of names. “You’ll need to pull together info for these people. I’ll show you exactly how to get into the right databases. Then all you have to do is find the accounts and print out the pages like that one.” He closed the folder and plopped it on the oak floor next to his feet. “Ready to start?”

  She looked at the documents in her hand. “That’s what I’m here for.” She felt a momentary pang about investigating people she considered friends at some level.

  “You can start checking on the guy who owns that café, Mario — ”

  “I know who Mario is.” She grabbed the mouse and rolled the little piece of electronics around on a rubber pad with an investment company logo on it. The screensaver disappeared, and the monitor brightened to a white square atop a blue background. She keyed in “Kleinfeld, Mario” on the search line.

  On the other side of the desk, Griebe clicked his mouse and tipped forward in the chair to study the monitor in front of him, squinting at some detail. After a few seconds of sliding the mouse back and forth, he typed in some information. His arms stuck out like wings, their bulk at odds with the length of the keyboard.

  “Whoa boy,” Griebe said.

  “What is it?” She started to get up.

  He waved her off. “Nothing to see yet. The videotape is pretty grainy, but it’s enough to work with. Things are about to get interesting, I think.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ray Br
iggs leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed his palms back and forth over the leather arms. His gaze moved around the walls, surveying the documented milestones of his career. Temporary moorings, he thought. He’d always meant the small office to be a stepping stone to things bigger and better but hadn’t thought the move would come so soon.

  Calming dove-gray paint on the walls. Antique Persian rug on the floor. Reproductions of Louis XVI chairs faced the teak and ebony desk. The matching console held a laptop computer and a grouping of photographs of him with Lisa. An oil portrait of his mother dressed in an evening gown hung above a black, marble-topped Bombé chest that served as an emergency dresser, the drawers stocked with fresh underwear, socks, ties, and white shirts in clear plastic wrappers.

  He stood up, took down the painting, and leaned it against the desk. He started working on the framed certificates and diplomas, enclosing each one in bubblewrap and placing it in a cardboard packing box.

  He felt a presence behind him rather than hearing anyone enter the space and spun around. “Mr. Saint John,” he said and smiled his too-white smile.

  Saint John ignored the outstretched hand and slid into Briggs’s desk chair. Karadzic stood in the doorway, his back to the office. Briggs was trapped between them. Saint John motioned to a Louis XVI. “Sit down, Dr. Briggs.”

  “What’s going on?” Briggs folded slowly into the chair, cradling the cast in front of him with his good hand. Not that it hurt. He wanted to remind Saint John he was an injured man, no threat to anyone.

  “You did not follow my orders.”

  “I got that. That’s why you had Karadzic work me over, isn’t it? He didn’t have to break my hand.” Sweat beaded on his brow and upper lip. He could still hear the bones crunch when Karadzic stomped on his hand then twisted it into the floor.

  “You were instructed to make your obligatory hospital visit, get Dr. Campbell’s Mount Palomar photographs, then take a vacation. Instead, I find you asked for copies of her photographs. Copies! She still has the photos.”

  How did he find out? “I didn’t understand. But it’s okay. I can get them.”