Lethal Politics

by Bob Blink

  "Credit card companies are easy," Ghost said. "Shouldn't be that way since it's people's money being protected, but I've done this before. I'll call you back shortly."

  Good to his word, Ghost was back with a call in less than the ten minutes he'd promised.

  "Jackpot," he said when Karl answered. "One of the cards has been in regular use for more than a month."

  "Just the one?" Karl asked.

  "Yeah. The others all went quiet about the same time back in June."

  "What charges have you got?"

  "Plane tickets," Ghost replied. "Just the other day. Whoever has the card charged a flight from Las Vegas to Washington, DC, then from DC to New York, and the following day from New York back to Vegas. Sounds like a very quick business trip."

  There it was, Karl thought, realizing he had found the connection he sought. This was too much to be coincidence. Someone made a trip to the two cities where Cindy Moore would be found, probably discovering after arriving in the Capital that she'd gone off to New York and followed. He killed her, then returned back to Sin City. It didn't have to be that way, but Karl was willing to bet his paycheck from Eric Craig that that's what happened. More importantly, if he was correct in his assumption, then this guy was contacted and told to make the hit. That could very well be the same person who coordinated the hit on Nancy Craig, a killing he was now pretty certain was a murder as well. He needed that connection.

  "What other charges did you find on the card?" Karl asked, hoping he might get a location on the bastard. It was a crowded city to search cold with no idea what the character looked like.

  "Hotel and rental car," Ghost replied. "This guy has been living high in Las Vegas for a while. A couple of months anyway."

  "Since when," Karl asked wondering if the stay in Vegas coincided with the completion of the Craig killing.

  "Charges started in late July," Ghost replied.

  Not immediately after the killing, Karl realized, so not conclusive.

  "Where is he staying?" Karl asked.

  "Ceasar's Palace."

  Karl could see what Ghost meant. The rates there were above average for the gambling Mecca.

  "Can you get a room number?"

  "I'll call you back," Ghost said.

  "Room 2512 in the Augustus Tower," Ghost told him when he called back a bit later. "One of the nicer rooms with a great view."

  "Fantastic," Karl replied, already thinking what he was going to do. "Keep those print-outs. I might need them later."

  After settling on the fees with the hacker, Karl hung up, immediately calling the airlines for a Vegas reservation and arranging for a room on the 25th floor of the Augustus Tower at Ceasar's starting that very night.

  Chapter 26

  He'd caught sight of the occupant of room 2512 before breakfast the following morning. Definitely a foreigner and a rough looking character despite the high-end clothes he was wearing. He didn't look the type to have the money for this place, and the garments he was wearing, but then Karl wasn't paying his own way here either. Big, with powerful arms and scarred knuckles, a very dark short-haired beard, and a dangerous habit of paying attention to his surroundings, the man wouldn't be the type to be caught off guard. That could prove to be a problem, and thus far had kept Karl from observing the man from short range. From what he could see, Karl believed the man to be armed, although as big as he was whatever weapon he might be carrying barely bulged his jacket, but it was a reminder to Karl that any confrontation with this man could turn deadly in an instant. The detective wanted to keep a close eye on the man to see whom he interacted with. Just maybe he would lead him to a couple of others, who might be more of the gang that he hoped to find. Of course, he might simply be vacationing here in Sin City, with his friends far away tending to their own interests.

  It would also be informative to have a look inside his room, but it wasn't clear just how he might manage that. The rooms used programmable electronic locks, and Karl wasn't talented enough nor did he have the gear to create a fake key. The maids had keys that would open every room on the floor, but the two women he'd thus far seen cleaning up kept their access key in a deep pocket on their hip. He had some pickpocket skills, but he doubted he was adept enough to grab their key undetected, and even if he did he worried that the loss of the key might be a firing offense for the unfortunate maid. Balanced against his doubt that he would find much in the room, he wasn't ready just yet to follow that approach. He would like to get his hands on the man's cell phone, but he almost certainly carried that around with him. If it was locked in the pitiful room safe, Karl would be able to get a hold of it, but again, it was too early to take that kind of risk for uncertain payout. Besides, such devices could be opened so many different ways by unauthorized personnel that no one with a lick of sense would put anything incriminating in it. The other downside to entering the room was the likelihood that this guy was careful enough he might detect he'd been searched.

  Waiting in the lobby across the room from the elevators, half hidden by one of the larger floor plants, he hoped that his quarry would come down and he could tail him and see what more he could learn about the man. Ghost had verified that he was using the same name as on the credit card for both the room and the rental car, not a big surprise or he'd have had problems, but it was unlikely his real name. Karl had made two passes through the garage earlier, and finally located the Audi rental car parked on the third level. If the guy had items he wanted hidden that he couldn't carry around the car would be a better bet than the room, but again, it was premature to be that aggressive.

  Half hidden by a series of artificial trees, they might have been real, Karl sat with a book open on his iPad and was actually able to semi-track the antics of the characters in the story while he waited. He wasn't sure what to expect when the man arrived, but was certain that no one had visited him in his room. Karl had planted a small video camera in the hallway that he could monitor on his iPad, the same one he was reading the novel on, which had showed no movement since the man had returned after lunch. It was now mid-afternoon.

  Karl had contemplated and rejected attempting to plant one of the personal micro-trackers on the man. Without a partner to help him, Karl would have to risk getting too close to the man, which could cause him to be noticed and eliminate any future ability to tail him. Also, it wasn't beyond reason for the man to detect it at a later time, which would reveal he was being watched, potentially ruining the whole exercise.

  Finally, at almost four in the afternoon, the elevator doors opened and the husky suspect stepped into the lobby. Karl ignored him, only watching out of the corner of his eye until the man's back was toward him, and even then waited until he was nearly out of sight across the room. It wouldn't have mattered. The suspect made a bee-line toward the casino, found a table he liked, and proceeded to sit and lose money until nearly 8 PM. Then he gathered in his remaining chips, headed toward the casino's steak house, and ordered a large dinner which he ate alone, never making a call, and never looking at his phone. He seemed perfectly content to sit and watch his fellow dinners, something that made Karl uneasy because the man might just be using the meal to detect anyone interested in his activities. After the meal he returned to the tables, gambled until midnight, then retired to his room.

  The next day was much the same, until after dinner. Instead of returning to the casino, the suspect headed toward the casino entrance, and stepped out into the evening air, heading purposefully down the street, clearly with an intended destination. Karl smiled. This might be the break he'd been hoping for.

  At bit later Karl realized that he had lost the bastard. He stopped along the edge of the dark brick structure and carefully scanned the way ahead to be certain. One minute his quarry was half a block ahead, then he was nowhere to be seen. The problem of empty streets and trying to look invisible when there were no other people to provide camouflage, Karl decided. Unfortunately this little side trip was the first unusual and interesting movement
the guy had made since Karl had started watching him. But now Karl knew he'd been busted. He didn't have time to think how that was going to play into any further monitoring of the suspect, but right now it would be prudent to turn around and make his way back to the main drag where there were a lot of people to discourage any confrontation.

  He backed up a few steps, watching the direction the big guy had gone, just to see if he was coming back, then quietly turned and began retracing his steps. He was glad the guy wasn't coming. At his current age and physical conditioning running after, or away from, anyone wasn't high on his list of best skills. He walked down the long block, periodically pausing to scan the darkened street behind him. Maybe the guy was trailing him, hoping to see where he went or who he was. Then, suddenly, Karl didn't have to wonder where the guy had gone. He was right in front of him, a mere twenty feet away having just stepped around the corner at the end of the block. Karl cursed himself for not stepping into the street before reaching such an obvious ambush location. He must be getting old.

  "Hey asshole," the deep voice said. "Why are you following me?"

  How do you answer a question like that, Karl wondered. Especially in circumstances like this where he was clearly busted. I've been hoping to see if you were involved in the killing of a presidential candidate? Nope, not a good idea. Neither would be a snarky remark about his being a suspect for a murder on the East Coast.

  Before he could formulate a response, he noted the guy was on the move, his direction, with a gleaming item in his hand. A blade, and from the way the guy held it, he appeared to know how to use it. Karl couldn't help recalling a rather graphic video shown to FBI recruits about the dangers presented by people with knives who knew how they could be used. This was getting worse by the moment. As he recalled, the video warned about allowing the knife wielding adversary from closing within twenty feet. Failed that part of the exercise, Karl realized, and he'd already ruled out running. There was no way help could arrive in time to do anything other than verify that his cold mutilated body was quite dead, so it was going to be up to him to resolve this.

  Karl wasn't the fastest gun hand the Bureau had ever employed, but he'd always been interested in shooting and a bit of an enthusiast. Unlike many he didn't carry because it was part of the job, but actually had a liking and respect for various weapons. Some were better than others, and while he carried the specified weapon while an active agent, he transitioned to his long held favorite once he became a private citizen. The Colt 1911 in .45ACP was, in his mind, the finest combat piece ever developed. He had fired more than a quarter of a million rounds through various models over his many years. It was time to put that practice to use.

  His current sidearm was manufactured by Bill Wilson, who guaranteed excellent accuracy, but more importantly exceptional reliability. Good thing. A jammed gun at a time like this a real downer. His had a shortened barrel and a compact frame, and it rested inside a custom made, inside the waistband holster, ready for instant use. While the uninformed were disturbed by the cocked and locked status of his weapon, that was the way it had been designed to be carried, with good reason. In situations like this there was no time to cock a hammer, or jack a round into the chamber. You wanted the gun out, and as you brought it to bear you used your thumb to lower the safety, so you could shoot as soon as you had a sight picture.

  None of this went through his mind as he evaluated the attacker moving toward him. There was no time to talk. No time to try and avoid the inevitable. It was do or die.

  The gun came out smoothly as it had hundreds, perhaps thousands of times as he'd practiced the draw. It came up, the tritium night nights unconsciously aligning while the gun was in motion. The front sight centered on the massive chest of the target altogether too close as he fired a quick double tap, the two forty-five rounds leaving the gun nearly at the limit of the weapon's ability to cycle.

  For a moment he thought he was too late, but as he back peddled and raised the weapon a bit higher for a head shot, he could hardly miss at this range, the big guy stumbled and then fell, loose limbed and without control, dropping to the pavement where Karl had been standing before he did his hurried backward dance. The knife spilled out of the massive paw, and other than a few weak grasping finger movements, the form stilled, and then stopped moving altogether.

  Karl moved behind the guy, to ensure no lunge was possible if he were faking, but Karl had seen enough shootings to be quite certain this guy was finished. A quick glance showed no one had obviously heard the shots, or at least no one was showing an interest just yet.

  Gun held against his body, but still ready for action if needed, Karl searched the still form, now leaking a fair amount of blood onto the concrete. It was the guy he'd been trailing, not some accomplice. The man's pockets yielded only a few items. Keys to the rental car, wallet, two cell phones, something that Karl found intriguing, and a very large revolver.

  If he did this by the book, Karl would now call the police, and wait for them to come, arrest him and pack away the body, and stuff the critical evidence into some storage locker for a future date. Not gonna happen, he decided. He needed the information that might be in those phones and whatever identification beyond the fake name the guy had been using that would probably be revealed by the contents of the wallet. He stuffed everything into his own pockets, all except the massive handgun that he managed to secure between his belt and body. He wanted to leave the heavy thing behind, but there was a remote chance it was the only item that would reveal something useful about the dead suspect. With a quick look to verify no one was coming, he stood, and quickly turned down the side street and headed back to his room. It was clearly time to give Kevin a call, but not until after he had a look at his treasures.

  The wallet was stuffed with bills, mostly twenties and hundreds, a couple of credit cards, a driver's license, and a half dozen slips of paper. The credit cards and license were consistent, and if correct, yielded the guy's real name and address. From Texas, Ibrahim Fatani fit the character far better than the Smith moniker he'd been using.

  Both phones were locked, but the guy must have a horrible memory because he had notes on two of the small slips of paper tucked in a slot in his wallet that gave the passcodes for each. The expensive Apple phone had absolutely no numbers, and no personal information. Clearly this guy had used it for Internet and other applications, but given his issue with memory and the lack of numbers, he apparently had few people he wished to call, and didn't want personal information on a device that might end upp in someone else’s hands

  The cheap phone was obviously a burner. It was completely vanilla and except for three phone numbers stored in memory. The burner was clearly where he kept numbers of people he might need to contact. Three phone numbers, all with the same area code as this phone as if they had been bought in a block. Four people. The exact number of individuals he'd previously concluded were following Nancy Craig and her campaign team.

  His fingers itched at the possibility of calling the numbers and seeing who answered, but that would be stupid. He had his lead. Now he needed help, because the numbers would lead to phones, which if they were activated would tell them the area these people were in, and with a little work might actually lead them to the people. The dead body aside, it was time to get Kevin involved. They needed the local FBI to take possession of the dead man and learn what they can, and Kevin hopefully had the contacts to follow up on what Karl had discovered. After calling Kevin, he owed Mr. Craig an update as well.

  Chapter 27

  For some reason Karl had anticipated that their meeting would be held at FBI Headquarters, since his friend had been in Washington on other business, but instead upon his arrival in Capital his call to Kevin resulted in his being directed to a room in one of the major hotels.

  "What's the deal?" Karl asked when they were together in the room. He was just a little uncomfortable with the situation, especially considering he had stumbled onto what had to be a significant cons
piracy to tamper with the Presidential elections. They had been partners for many years, but it had also been some time since they'd been in regular contact.

  "I want to see what you have first hand before I go and stir the official pot," Kevin explained. "The directions were quite explicit on this case given the sensitivity surrounding the matter, and my career could be forfeit if this isn't everything you say."

  "So, you don't trust my judgment anymore?" Karl didn't recall such matters being so political in the past. He wondered just how much the organization had changed in these days of political correctness, and after the Bureau had been so badly slammed by the political leaders the past couple of years. Everything had become overly political. The Bureau wasn't meant to be that way. Or maybe Kevin had changed.

  "A second set of eyes never hurts," Kevin replied. "Look, we need to be on the same page with this."

  Somewhat mollified, Karl said, "Okay, what do you want to do?"

  "Did you bring everything?"

  "As you requested. Bringing along that guy's cannon was a bit of a concern, but I broke the law and lied to the inspector at the airport. I flashed my old badge and told him what I had and that it was evidence for a hot case I was bringing back to headquarters." Karl paused. "If you haven't told the brass, then what about the police in Vegas? Do they know what went down with the guy I killed?"

  "Not yet," Kevin admitted softly.

  "Not yet. That means I'm a felon who fled the scene of a shooting, carrying away key evidence associated with the crime. Are you going to visit me in jail?"

  "Don't get excited. We'll get this all settled and the various parties in agreement before this is finished. For a while they'll just have a John Doe that was killed in a back alley. The case will go cold until we bring it back to life. His name and credit cards are all fake, and you took his identification."