Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  “Do you have a name?” Melendez asked.

  “No, still working on that. So far, they don’t match anything that we have in our database or in the international database. Scotland Yard and Police Nationale are looking for a match, as well. I did ask your Quantico forensic scientists to help us try to digitally recreate a more complete fingerprint, so we can make a better attempt to match. It’s too early to tell if they will be successful. We need some possible persons of interest to compare to,” Jodi said. “We need to isolate the universe of possibilities. This really is a needle in a field of haystacks right now.”

  “Terrific work, detective. Keep driving it,” Melendez responded. “Please make sure Tanner gets you all the people identified in our commonalities work. That is as close as we have to any persons of interest.”

  “Thank you, sir, he was going to be my next call.”

  Early the next morning, Moxie rushed into Melendez’s office.

  “Boss! Brigid Greely’s car…it burned in an underground garage in DC. Apparently an explosion.”

  “Jesus. Was she in it?”

  “If she was, there’s nothing left of the lady. The explosion took out some of the pylons nearby, fire and police couldn’t even get in there till they determined the roof wouldn’t come down. So no traces, at least no blood or tissue. But the car was positively identified from a fragment of the vehicle ID number, and her car was still in the garage’s computer at the time—meaning it hadn’t left the garage. Our agents confirmed they never saw it leave.”

  “Jesus Christ, who are we dealing with here?”

  Four Seasons Hotel, London

  Before going down to Dennis’s room, Gantry sat thinking, sorting through the possibilities. He was bewildered, even a little scared. He had Hendrix’s journal in his possession, and it contained what was very possibly incriminating information—information he thought might help break the case.

  Unable to reach Melendez, he was on his own, and had to be resourceful. Should he show the Hendrix journal to Dennis or wait till Melendez saw it? Or just tear out the page? Call London Metro and compromise his undercover role…What?

  He jumped when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Gantry, I have a great idea,” Dennis exclaimed. “I just rented a car for us, a brand new Jag F-Type. Why don’t we take a drive down memory lane? We can visit Abbey Road studios. See where some of these stars lived and died. Then we can fly out on the late flight. What do you say?”

  “I guess so,” Gantry responded, still not sure what to do.

  “Terrific, I’ll get a porter to help with the boxes. See you out front in fifteen minutes.” Then he added, “Hey, by the way, did you take anything from the boxes? I can’t find the journal. I remember you had it last, in the garage? I assume you picked it up.”

  Gantry hesitated. “No, I don’t have it. I flipped through it, but I put it back on top of the box.”

  “Shit,” Dennis was irritated. “I don’t remember it on top of the box. Are you sure? Shit.”

  Gantry quickly packed up his bag and went down to the lobby. At the concierge’s desk, he inquired, “Can you deliver this today? It’s extremely important,” as he was writing the address on the envelope.

  “Of course, sir,” the concierge said, glancing at the address. “It should be there within the hour.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Later that day an envelope containing the Hendrix journal was delivered to Rolling Stone’s London office. It was addressed to:

  Alex Jaeger

  From: Buddy Holly

  Useless, Texas

  Personal and Confidential.

  “Sorry I’m late. You want to drive?” Dennis asked.

  “Are you kidding? The wheel is on the wrong side, and they drive on the wrong side of the road. I’d kill us!”

  “You used to be a bit more of a risk taker, mate. Let’s first go to Abbey Road studios. Being from Rolling Stone, you should be able to get us in. Sound like a plan?” Dennis asked. “By the way, I called Chloe, and she didn’t see the journal anywhere. The cab company thinks they know what cab it was, and when they check back in tonight, they’ll search it for us. Hope we didn’t come all this fucking way for some tie-dyed tee shirts!” Visibly angry, Dennis didn’t wait for an answer, and changed the subject.

  “Isn’t this an awesome car? Jaguar did themselves proud with this rocket. Hey, mate, you’re not very talkative today, jet lagged?”

  “Yeah…tired. I guess the merry-go-round I’ve been on for the last couple weeks is catching up with me. Need a good night’s sleep.”

  “You can sleep on the plane, my friend.”

  “Hey, Dennis, where did you live when you were here?” Gantry asked.

  “Near Grosvenor Square. I’ll drive by there later. ”

  “Did you work full time for the record company when you lived here? Must have been fun at that time in London,” Gantry mused.

  “It ended up being full time, but I never intended it to be. Did a lot of grunt work: collections, deliveries, driving stars around. Things like that. Sounded glamorous to the chicks, but actually it was pretty boring stuff.”

  He pushed the Jaguar around corners at speed and seemed fidgety, glancing in his rearview and side mirrors.

  Gantry said, “What’s the matter?”

  Dennis sped up and suddenly made a left turn. Gantry pulled his visor down and looked behind them. A silver Mercedes was directly on their tail.

  “That car has been following us for the last ten minutes,” Dennis said.

  “Police?”

  “In a Mercedes? And the driver is alone. Hold on.”

  Late that night, Melendez’s cell rang. His team had gone home hours earlier, and he was thinking of spending the night in his office as he did in the old days. The caller ID read private caller. He didn’t like answering calls from numbers he didn’t recognize, but given all that was going on…

  “Melendez.”

  “Agent Melendez, I only have a minute. I’m being followed.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a fan of rock and roll.”

  The voice was female, deep, sounded middle-aged. And then suddenly he realized who it was.

  The caller anticipated his thought.

  “Don’t use names.”

  “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, but I won’t be for long. They’re after me, as I’m sure you know by now.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll get two agents there as fast as I can.”

  “Not until I know I have your assurances.”

  “Assurances for what?”

  “If I cooperate, I need immunity. This is a lot bigger than you think, and you will get nowhere without me—nowhere. There are too many players in too many places.”

  Melendez knew she was right, but he couldn’t unilaterally offer her immunity. The Bureau’s general counsel and the district’s attorney general would have to approve it, and that wasn’t going to happen overnight. But he could bring her in.

  “Okay, but I will have to work this over the next twenty-four hours. For now, let me have you picked up and taken to a safe house. You will be protected. You have my word, but you have to tell me where you are.”

  “Okay.”

  She gave him an address in Georgetown and a passcode knock.

  “We’ll be there within twenty minutes. Don’t move!”

  The phone went dead and Melendez sat down heavily. “This is it. I knew it. I knew she was the key to it all,” he said to himself.

  His next call was to Agent Lawrence DeHart in the FBI DC office. In spite of the hour, DeHart got on it immediately. Melendez then called the FBI’s general counsel and explained the situation. The counsel called their liaison in the attorney general’s office in Washington. Melendez had been in contact with them several times throughout the investigation, as was normal protocol. In this case, they had also coordinated with London a
nd Paris to ensure that if warrants were issued, they would come from the most prosecutable jurisdiction, and were ready to be issued immediately.

  Brigid Greely would have to be arrested formally before anything could happen, but he could keep her in protective custody for at least forty-eight hours and get a statement from her. He knew she was too smart to give them much until they had a formal deal in writing. And that could take some time.

  This could just be the end to all of it. If she could help tie the connections to the wire transfers, the source of funds and the key players, he could do the rest.

  Anne Herriot’s Apartment

  Brooklyn, New York

  “Ms. Herriot, I’m Agent Rockwell. I’m the artist you were expecting,” the man announced.

  He could hear the multiple dead-bolts sliding open one by one, and slowly the woman opened the door.

  “Good morning, Ms. Herriot. Is it okay to come in?”

  The apartment smelled musty and stale. Like the windows had not been opened in years, he thought. Everything in it was dated and in need of upgrading.

  “Yes, young man, by all means. Please come in, I’ve been expecting you.”

  She gestured to a table near a window and said, “This should work well, a nice north light. I know you artists like northern light.”

  Rockwell put his case on the table and took out a sketchpad and four or five charcoal pencils.

  “Well Ms. Herriot, I will sit here, then. You tell me what the man looked like, and I’ll begin to rough out a sketch. As we go along, you can tell me to alter it any way you want: bigger nose, closer eyes, that sort of thing.”

  “Let’s see, he had reddish hair …” She paused. “But I suppose he might not have that now. He would have to be in his seventies.”

  “That’s all right Ms. Herriot. This is just a start. After we get a good likeness from those earlier days, our computer experts will do what they call an age progression. They’ll scan my finished drawing and then apply some techniques that will show us what he might look like today. For example, they’ll add wrinkles, weight, changes in the eyes—different aspects of the face that change as we age.”

  “I see. Well, I remember his face as clearly as I do my own brother’s. He was tall—but this is only his face you’re doing, correct?”

  “Correct. But don’t leave anything out.”

  “He had a thin, oval face.”

  Rockwell began to draw.

  “He had very thin lips and a narrow nose, as well. Nose was a little long, with a little bump in the middle.”

  Rockwell continued working with Anne Herriot for well over an hour, then together they looked at the finished drawing.

  “That’s him! No doubt about it. My, you are good, young man!”

  “Thank you, Ms. Herriot,” he replied. He packed up his materials. “I’ll be getting back to you in a couple of days. We appreciate your help.”

  By midmorning of the next day, the image was finished. Using the original black-and-white sketch, and Rockwell’s notes on complexion, hair color, and height, the program was able to produce a full-color image of an intense-looking man in his seventies.

  The computer artist rushed the rendering to Tanner’s office, but Tanner wasn’t there. Leaving the rendering in a manila envelope with the word URGENT written on it, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed Tanner but got his voice mail.

  “I have bad news,” Bruce said to Melendez.

  “Damn, I have good news. Give me yours first.”

  “Gantry is missing. Neither he nor Briganty are in the hotel. But they haven’t checked out yet, either. We had our man get housekeeping to open both room doors.”

  “Maybe they’ve found a lead, had to go immediately.”

  “Their bags are gone, too. There isn’t a trace that they were even there, nothing. This is not good.”

  “Jesus,” Melendez said. “Maybe they flew home?”

  “We already checked. Don’t you think Gantry would have called you? My friend, believe me, we are all over this. I have five men out. We sent one of them over to Briganty’s girlfriend’s house, the girl Chloe, out on the West End. We’ll start there.”

  There was a pause.

  “So…what’s your good news?”

  “We’re picking up Brigid Greely. She’s in hiding, scared for her life. I’m assuming Tanner told you that the explosion was so potent, we didn’t know right away if she was even alive. Now she wants immunity, and she’s ready to talk. She’ll be in our custody momentarily, and I plan to begin the interrogation personally tomorrow.”

  Washington DC

  Evening

  A black SUV pulled up in the dark Georgetown alley next to a heavy steel door. Two agents climbed out. The passenger-side agent, Lawrence DeHart, pulled his 9mm Glock and stood by the front bumper of the vehicle. The other agent knocked three times quickly, but softly, and then twice slowly.

  The alley was strewn with overflowing trashcans, liquor bottles and beer cans, and they could hear something in the dark scurrying back and forth.

  The agent waited for thirty seconds, then repeated the knock.

  The heavy door opened slowly and the agent stepped back.

  At either end of the alley stood a black Suburban.

  Greely stepped out carrying an oversized purse. Her face was white and her eyes were darting around like a cornered animal’s.

  The agent by the door glanced around one more time, then nodded for her to climb into the back seat.

  She began to cross the three-foot space to the car.

  Suddenly a bright flare-like light blazed at the north end of the alley, followed instantly by a penetrating boom! The agents at that end whirled toward the sound. Brigid Greely froze—and a zipping bap, this time from a sniper’s rifle, sounded above them. Greely stumbled, then fell.

  She was dead before her body hit the concrete.

  The agents regrouped as quickly as they could. DeHart slung Greely’s purse into the car and he and the other agent heaved the body in after it. The two other vehicles raced up in unison and agents tumbled out. They knew the shooter was long gone, along with whoever had distracted them, but they reconnoitered the area anyway.

  As his SUV sped away, DeHart got on the radio to Melendez.

  “We’re heading to George Washington. She’s dead. They were waiting for us.”

  “God damn it! Melendez shouted. How the hell did they know what was she was going to do?”

  Daniel Culain, dropped his bag in the cabin and calmly slipped behind the pilot’s seat, twisted off the cap of his Fiji water and took a long drink. He synced his smart phone to the cockpit stereo and quickly lifted off, fading away in the crisp night sky to the vibe sound of Chick Corea.

  The Streets of London

  The Mercedes was glued to their Jag.

  “Hold on,” Dennis yelled. With that, he spun the car in an expert one-hundred-eighty-degree spin and raced off in the opposite direction as the Mercedes kept its forward motion, unable to react fast enough. The Jag took off over London Bridge and zig-zagged through a maze of narrow streets.

  Gantry’s heart was in his mouth; he’d never seen anyone drive like this in a city. It was like a scene out of Fast and Furious, only this was the real thing. He held on to his seat belt with his right hand and the overhead hand grab with the left, set his teeth, and tried to breathe somewhat normally. Though the streets were narrow, he glanced at the speedometer now reading 160 kph. He instinctively looked down at Dennis’ hand on the gear shift as he downshifted, and it suddenly registered…the same ring.

  “Good thing I remember the back streets, hey, mate?” Dennis said. “I think we lost them, but we do need to ditch this car.”

  Dennis seemed as calm as a tour guide.

  “Dennis, what in God’s name is going on?” Gantry shouted. “Where the fuck did you learn to drive like that?”

  “It’s a long story. Right now we need to get out of this car and get a black hack.”
/>
  Suddenly, he pulled the car into a covered car park, drove three stories up, turned off the ignition, and opened his door.

  “Dennis! What the hell is going on? Is someone after me?”

  Dennis hesitated. Then he spoke calmly.

  “I need to get us out of here.”

  “Let’s go to the police,” Gantry said emphatically.

  “No. We have to get out of here as soon as possible. The police can’t protect you. Let’s grab what essentials we need and leave the rest.”

  He popped the trunk and grabbed one large case. Gantry followed suit, carrying his valise.

  “Leave your suitcase,” Dennis ordered.

  Gantry grabbed a handful of papers from the Hendrix box and a multicolored scarf and stuffed them into his valise.

  “The station is within walking distance. We’re going to take the high-speed train to Birmingham, where we’ll be safe,” Dennis instructed.

  “But why? Why there, and why is someone after me?”

  Dennis didn’t respond. He led Gantry at a fast pace down a side street and into the train station. They bought two tickets and went directly to the gate and boarded the train. Dennis turned to Gantry as they sat down.

  “Can Jaeger get us a private plane out of England?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “He’s the only one we can trust right now. We need to get out of here as soon as possible. Call him.”

  Confused and still disoriented, Gantry called Alex, but the call did not go through.

  “Take mine,” Dennis said, as he handed over his mobile phone.

  “Alex Jaeger.”

  “Alex, Gantry here. I—I don’t have a lot of time. Dennis and I need your help. Someone is after me, and we need to get out of here now,” he said frantically.