Lone Hunter: Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 3

by D. F. Bailey

  “Maybe.” She released a final shudder and set her head on his shoulder.

  When they arrived at the mansion on Nob Hill that Finch so admired, they walked up the staircase to the third floor condos, past Sochi’s apartment and stood at Finch’s door while he struggled to find his keys. At last he unlocked the door and swept Eve ahead of him into the living room. She stood a moment with her back to him and then burst into tears.

  “My God,” she whispered. “Is that Sochi’s duffle bag?” Two suitcases and the duffle bag stood side by side along the wall where Finch had left them that morning. “I can’t stand that this is here and he’s not.”

  Finch tossed his jacket onto the couch and slid Sochi’s bag into the closet. “That’s the best I can do for now. Tomorrow I’ll tell the others what happened. Maybe some of them will know what to do with his stuff.” For a moment he wondered if Sochi possessed a last will and testament. He imagined that the estate would be worth millions. On the other hand, formal estate planning likely never entered Sochi’s mind. Not for an instant.

  “Will….” Eve set her head on his shoulder and wept helplessly. “God, I can’t stop myself.”

  “Don’t even try.” He pulled her to the love seat and curled an arm around her. “Just let it all go. So much else has gone wrong. Let this go too.”

  His words released a flood. Seconds later she let out a loud wail and nuzzled her head against his chest.

  She pulled away from his arms to wipe her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup ran in streaks down her cheeks, her hair hung in damp strands over her ears. She glared at him with a look he’d never seen before. A look of desperation, hunger, fear, desire.

  “This is a disaster.” She managed to sit up on her own and wrapped a hand over her lips as if she needed to stop the words in her mouth.

  “What’s a disaster?”

  “I love you,” she said in a pleading tone.

  There it was again. He waited a moment, locked his eyes on her to see ... what? What more did he want from her?

  “I know.” The best he could manage.

  “You know?” She picked herself up and looked down at him. “You know? That’s it?”

  “No.” He shook his head, stood up and held her again. “It just frightens me,” he whispered into her ear.

  “Love frightens you. Why does it frighten you?”

  “Because every time….” He stalled, not sure how to explain his confusion. “Every time I get too close. And then someone dies.”

  “No. Not this time.” She took his face in her hands. “This time nothing will happen. You don’t know how strong I am.”

  “You promise?”

  She shook her head, astounded that he could ask this.

  “Just take me to bed, will you?” She kissed him. “And just hold me. That’s all I need. Just give me that much.”

  ※ — FOURTEEN — ※

  THE NEXT MORNING Finch awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing. His arms were curled around Eve, his right hand on her stomach. The bed was warm, the pale light outside the open window filtered through a fog that had settled over the city like a sleeping cat. He tried to decide if the noise from his phone signaled a text, an email or an actual call. Then he glanced at the screen. “It’s Wally,” he said and set his feet on the carpet. “I need to take this.”

  “Okay.” Eve’s voice sounded bright, revived. Yesterday’s despair and desperation had vanished. She kissed his shoulder and made her way to the bathroom shower stall.

  “Will, I got confirmation for your interview,” Wally began. “Everything’s lined up for tonight.”

  “The interview with Senator Whitelaw?” He drew a hand over his eyes and stood up.

  “Exactly. Ten P.M. eastern time in Washington. At his penthouse.”

  “Tonight? How’d you wrangle that?” He stood at the window and gazed into the immaculate Italianate garden below. The house gardener pulled at a tangle of buttercup weeds as he knelt on the lawn.

  “Just as we planned. I sent his chief of staff a confidential note which contained the first two paragraphs from your story on Malinin. Now look. Apparently the senator’s had some kind of health problem. Might even be a stroke; no one seems to know for sure. In any case, he could be dying. So I want you to write the Whitelaw profile no more than an hour after you finish the interview. Then I’m going to publish the whole story tonight. A-to-Z like we agreed. I’ll take your first draft. If you need to, do a re-write on the plane back to SFO. Things are moving so fast, spit and polish doesn’t matter.”

  “What’s moving so fast?” He walked into the kitchen and pressed the Insta-Brew button on the coffee maker.

  “With Fiona. As she predicted, last night the SFPD finally acknowledged the link between her abduction and Justin’s suicide.”

  “Fantastic.” He could sense the victory just ahead. Could smell it. “The whole story’s going to break open.”

  “Except the international media are jumping all over this. So after the senator’s interview I need you back here ASAP to report on Fiona’s side of it. Meanwhile she’s in hiding, writing all the backgrounders. But I need you to interview her about her kidnapping, confinement and escape. That’s got to come out fast. If you can swing it, catch the red-eye back to town, all right?”

  “What about Stutz and Wengler? I thought you recruited them when the Post shut down.

  “They don’t start until Monday.”

  Will thought a moment. Suddenly the workload felt overwhelming. “If you’re stuck, give that kid Finkleman a shot. He’s a research ninja.”

  “Yeah, but can he write?” He paused as if he might be considering the possibility. “Who knows? It might be smarter than pulling Bozeman from Science and Tech. Besides, he’s buried with the latest skirmish in the Google-Apple-Amazon wars. Damn it, this is what happens when you try to run a news operation on a shoestring.”

  Finch shrugged. Why try to solve Wally’s problems? He had his own job to do. “Listen, Wally, did Whitelaw know about Justin being linked to Fiona before he agreed to an interview.”

  “Yes. Look, I gotta run.” His tone acquired an authoritative edge. “Okay, so Dixie’s booked you on a noon flight to D.C. today and an open-end return tik when you’re ready to swing back here. She emailed you the details. Get the Whitelaw story to me before we log-off here tonight. Now go.”

  “Wally, wait.” Finch raised a hand in the air, as if he could flag down his boss and bring him to a stop. “Sochi died last night.”

  A pause. “He died? I thought you said he had the flu.”

  “No. Ricin poisoning. Looks like Malinin hit him in Honolulu just before our flight took off. Eve and I spent four hours with the FBI yesterday.”

  “Ricin? Jesus Murphy.… And Malinin killed him? Any proof of that?”

  “Not yet. But all signs point in his direction.”

  Another pause followed as he digested the news. “So this is all part of it, right? Three murders: Toeplitz, Dean Whitelaw and now Sochi. Four if you count Gianna. Mix in the Russian oligarch, ricin poisoning and this crazy GIGcoin cartel — it’s a freakin’ volcano. Okay, so on your flight to Washington, write the story on Sochi and the Russian. Email it to me as soon as you touch down. Then go after Whitelaw and reel him in. Tonight’s D-Day all over again. The Allies are landing on all four beaches at once.”

  ※

  After he’d showered and dressed, Finch joined Eve in the dining room. She’d made bacon and eggs and toasted two multi-grain bagels. He told her about Wally’s call, the trip to Washington and the pending interview with the senator.

  “So when you publish the story on Senator Whitelaw, that should wrap everything up, right?”

  He laughed and began to chew on the bagel. “More like firing the starting gun. This story will run for months.”

  “Or until the media squeeze out the last drop of blood.” She smirked and ate some of the white from her egg. “Anyway, I’ll use the time whe
n you’re gone to work with Fran Bransome. She has to see me about Gianna and Toeplitz’s estate probate again. Apparently the SFPD are trying to subpoena the digital files as evidence in the Whitelaw and Toeplitz murders.” She waved to the email on her phone screen and set it on the table.

  “I guess that was inevitable. Let the lawyers have a kick at GIGcoin now.” Finch took another bite from his bagel, drew his laptop from his courier bag and began to search for Dixie’s email containing his flight info. “All right,” he said when he’d opened it. “Out of here at twelve-twenty. Arrive in D.C. just before nine. Cutting it pretty close.”

  “When do you return?”

  “Dunno. Open tik. Wally wants me back on tonight’s red-eye.” Distracted, he sipped his coffee and scanned the scrolls of email above the note from Dixie. One in particular caught his eye. Gabe Finkleman had sent him an attachment with the title GIGcoin patents. He opened it and found the usual formal greeting from the intern.

  Dear Mr. Finch, as you requested, please see enclosed a PDF of the patent registration for GIGcoin software. As you can see, the property is owned exclusively by Raymond Toeplitz. I’ve searched the federal and California corporate and property registries. From what I can see, ownership has not been transferred. Although it’s unlikely, it could be registered in another country. I’ll keep looking. Please let me know if there’s more I can do to help on this file.

  On this file. Finch chuckled to himself as he clicked on the patent registration PDF. A massive document began to download on his laptop. He scanned it for a few moments and turned to Eve. “I just received a copy of Raymond Toeplitz’s patent for GIGcoin. I’ll forward it to you.” He tapped the “share” icon on the document and watched the process wheel spin as the file shifted through the internet.

  For the next few minutes, Eve read the email from Finkleman and scanned the patent.

  “Hey. You know what? This proves Toeplitz still owns the GIGcoin patent.” She set her phone aside and looked at him. “He never transferred it to Whitelaw, Malinin and the rest of the consortium registered in the Caymans.”

  “Apparently not.” Finch held her eyes as he considered the implications.

  “Will … this could be it.” As she leaned forward a look of astonishment slowly settled on her face. “Finally. We have a documented, indisputable motive. Raymond Toeplitz wasn’t murdered because he was about to turn evidence of fraud over to the district attorney. He was killed because he refused to sell his patents.”

  Finch nodded. “And without them the entire international consortium running GIGcoin Bank and Exchange is nothing more than a fantasy shell company.”

  “So the software patents must be included in the Toeplitz estate.”

  “And it all belongs to you.”

  ※

  Finch’s plane wheeled into the terminal of Ronald Reagan National Airport a little before nine o’clock that evening. Minutes later he settled onto a bench in the arrivals lounge and emailed the story he’d written about Sochi’s death to Wally. Given the unproven allegations that the Russians were behind the murder, he closed the story with some open-ended questions. But astute readers would draw their own conclusions: Russian dirty tricks were used to kill Oscar Pocklington, a visionary leader in high tech who once saved a NASA mission when no one else could.

  Next he hailed a taxi and gave the driver Senator Whitelaw’s address: Washington Harbor at 3050 K Street. During the drive along the Potomac River Finch tried to orient himself. He’d only visited Washington once, in 2006, to support a briefing to the Military Intelligence command. He’d been seconded in place of his captain (who’d been wounded in a roadside attack two days earlier) for a meeting that lasted about four hours and included almost fifty senior officers. To his surprise the President attended the briefing for five or ten minutes, just enough time to shake hands with everyone before he was called away. Within a month, Finch had completed his tour in Iraq and returned to civilian life with the Distinguished Service Cross and an honorable discharge. He considered himself lucky.

  The cab pulled up to the entrance to the Washington Harbor building, a condo complex perched on the river bank in the bustling Georgetown area. There’d be little seclusion available in this neighborhood, but Finch knew that the senator preferred a busy street to a quiet park. Anywhere he could be photographed jogging by small retailers, popping into restaurants and cafes, snuggling stray dogs or kissing babies — that’s where the tanned senator from California wanted to be.

  He walked down the brick concourse to the waterfront building. At the reception desk the concierge demanded two pieces of ID and Finch’s cellphone number before he called the senator’s line. With the protocols cleared, he turned to Finch.

  “Mr. Peterson will be down in a minute,” he said and squinted suspiciously. “He’ll escort you to the senator’s penthouse.”

  Jeb Peterson looked Texan, smelled Texan, spoke Texan. He was taller than Finch by two or three inches, heavier by twenty pounds. A two-inch scar under his lip gave his demeanor an ugly turn. But it was the aroma of the man that most impressed Finch as they entered the elevator car. It took a moment to recognize the moist, heavy bouquet of Caribbean tobacco.

  “Smoke cigars, Finch?” Peterson typed a six-digit code into the elevator keypad. The doors skimmed shut.

  Finch laughed. “Not any more. Gave it up after I heard about Fidel’s revolution.”

  “Well time to come back to the tribe, pardner. Obama’s fixing things for us now, isn’t he?” His turn to smile.

  Finch was relieved when the elevators doors slid open again. A short ride up, only seven floors.

  “Mr. Finch I’m bound to tell you something most people don’t know,” he said in a more somber voice as he guided Will to the right and down a corridor. “Senator Whitelaw has been ... affected by the tragedies that have hit his family over the past few months.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I know what your meeting is about.” He stopped, turned and held Finch with a meaningful look. “He asked me to ensure that you speak to him in privacy, without me in attendance. I told him I thought that would be a mistake. But, being the kind of man he is, he insisted. In any case, if the senator needs my support in any way I’ll be” — he paused as if he couldn’t find the right word and simply gave up — “I’ll be here when he needs me.”

  Peterson punched another keypad to unlock the penthouse door and waved Finch ahead of him. Then Peterson turned, stepped back into the corridor and locked the door behind him.

  Will walked a few paces along the condo hallway. The floors were made from oak planks, inlaid with redwood trim set back four or five inches from the baseboards. The walls were painted mint green and adorned with at least ten photos of the senator shaking hands or embracing dignitaries and politicians. Bush one and two. Bill and Hillary Clinton. Obama, of course. Nelson Mandala. Mother Teresa. Warren Buffett. In the middle of the corridor, above a vase of fresh cut flowers, stood a framed image of the senator on his own, a TIME magazine cover of Whitelaw’s ruddy, smiling face and just below his chin, his well-known motto: “Politics is the art of asserting the People’s Will”—California Senator Franklin Whitelaw.

  “Mr. Finch?”

  He heard his name called from somewhere beyond the hallway.

  “In the living room. On the right.”

  Finch continued through the miniature gallery. When he reached the end of the hall he detected more cigar smoke. Stooped next to the fireplace, propped up by a cane, the senator waved Finch forward with his free hand. He wore a black suit, charcoal golf shirt, no tie. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, blinked once. The ever-florid tan had faded from his face, bleached into a pale gray. Compared to the incensed patriarch who’d ushered Finch out of his lodge in Cannon Beach months earlier — Senator Franklin Whitelaw now appeared to be a broken man.

  ※

  “Sit.” He pointed to the love seat with his cane and then settled into a wing-back chair in front of the fi
replace. “Let’s finish this miserable business while I’m still able.”

  Finch considered shaking the senator’s hand before they began the interview, then thought better of it. He sat opposite Whitelaw and opened his courier bag. He took out his phone, notepad, pen and a file folder and then he set up his laptop on the glass coffee table that separated the two men.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to record this.” He clicked on his phone and set it on the middle of the table.

  “Of course you do.”

  Finch tapped an icon on his audio-recorder app. “Senator Whitelaw, I’d like you to acknowledge that we’re now on record for an interview to be published in the San Francisco eXpress.”

  Whitelaw waved the hand resting on the top of his cane. “Get on with it.”

  Finch winced. Not quite good enough. “So you consent to this interview?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me begin by asking if you’re familiar with something called GIGcoin.”

  “It’s a digital currency that my step-brother, Dean, was trying to bring to market before his murder last month.”

  Finch glanced at him and then turned away. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  “Sorry? You are the fucking cause of my loss.”

  Finch blinked. Does he know that I spent a night with his daughter? That I witnessed his brother being gunned down on the top floor of a parkade? He took a moment to study the list of questions he’d compiled on his laptop.

  “Senator, do you recognize this document?” He opened the file folder and passed him a copy of the GIGcoin Bank and Exchange incorporation papers.

  With a dry wheeze the senator set the crook of his cane around the chair armrest and leaned forward to grasp the papers. He scanned the first page, flipped to the second and third and then set them all aside.

  “No.”

  “No?” A surprise. “Please turn to the last page.”

  Whitelaw took the document up again and turned to the final sheet.

  “Is that not your signature, sir?”