More than you can possibly imagine! “I agree it is time to put aside our differences and work together. There is much to be done.”
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that. With your help, we shall do great things in this administration, Benjamin. Great things.”
“I look forward to it. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER 114
HANGING UP THE PHONE, Locke quickly dialed the chief of the Colorado Springs Police Department. Over the years, Locke had made numerous charitable contributions to police causes; accordingly, Chief Bill Hanson was a loyal supporter and friend.
“Tell me it isn’t true, Bill. Tell me you didn’t just release Jennifer Odden,” he said without preamble.
Hanson sighed heavily. “I had no choice.”
“You let the prime suspect in the case walk away? How could you do this to me? That woman took my daughter’s life.”
“Hold on, Benjamin. We had to let her go. She didn’t do it. Before the college girl died, we showed her a picture of Jennifer Odden and she told us Jennifer was there with your daughter as an innocent bystander. She said some man dressed like a cop made the attack. The surviving nurse confirmed it. She ID’d the assailant as a uniformed cop too. She’s in critical condition, but hopefully she’ll pull through. I’ve also got three more witnesses who say they saw a man pull a young, wounded female victim back inside when she tried to escape. We think the young woman was Susan.”
Locke was livid. “But Jennifer Odden had the gun in her hands! I saw her!”
“So did several other people, but she didn’t fire the weapon. We swabbed her hands and ran neutron activation tests. We found no nitrates, so unless she was wearing gloves, which we haven’t been able to locate, she didn’t pull the trigger. Look, I would have liked to hold her longer too to question her some more, but the FBI pressed hard on this one. In fact, she was released on their recognizance. So as far as we’re concerned, she’s in the feds care now.”
Locke was stupefied. “The FBI? Why are they involved?”
“I can’t get into that. I know we’re friends, but this is an ongoing investigation.”
“My daughter’s bullet-ridden corpse lies in the Coroner’s Office and you’re telling me you can’t talk to me!”
Hanson groaned with frustration. “You’re putting me in an awkward position.”
“When I was in your office this morning, didn’t you tell me to call on you for anything? Didn’t you promise to keep me informed of any new developments in the case?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean—”
“I want to know on whose specific authority you let Jennifer Odden go!”
An acute silence on the other end. Locke rose from his chair and walked to the window, fuming. The television vans and trucks were still parked outside the electric gate. He saw reporters and cameramen flitting about as blue and yellow lights skipped across the street.
Damned liberal media!
Finally, Hanson responded: “All right, I’m only telling you this because I know how much Susan meant to you. The agent’s name is Patton—Kenneth Patton. He’s working the Kieger case. He said the Odden woman was a critical informant in the case.”
“A critical informant? What could she possibly know?”
“I’m not sure. Agent Patton wouldn’t tell me. Look, if you have a problem with her release, you’d better take it up with this Patton fellow.”
“Since when does the FBI supersede your authority on a local homicide investigation?”
“No one’s superseding my authority.”
“You can call it what you want, but you no longer have a suspect in custody.”
“We’re working on that. But unfortunately, no one got a good look at the gunman. All they saw was a guy in a cop’s uniform and dark sunglasses.”
“I didn’t see anyone matching that description.”
“I know what you told us, but others saw him. We don’t know if he was working alone. There may have been a driver. We’re still trying to confirm it.”
“So Jennifer Odden’s under the protective custody of this Agent Patton. Where? In Denver?”
Another silence. I’ll take that as a yes.
Hanson cleared his throat, rather officially. “I can’t say anything more. I’ve told you too much already. Now if you’ll excuse me, Benjamin, I have a press conference in five minutes.”
I have what I need—might as well end on a polite note. “Bill, I know you’re doing all you can and I want you to know I appreciate it. I just want to see justice done.”
“I know, Benjamin. I’ve got to go now. I’m awfully sorry about Susan.”
“Yes, thank you.” Locke punched off and dialed another number. While the phone rang, he stared off at the polished Model 1873 Springfield rifle hanging from the wall. The .45-caliber breech loader had been affectionately dubbed the Long Tom by frontier infantrymen. It was no match for the long-distance rifle Gomez would use tomorrow, but it was the best of its day.
“Mr. Chairman,” a baritone voice answered after the third ring. “I am sorry for what happened, sir. I just found out. I had no idea your daughter was there.”
“Speak no more of it. I do not hold you responsible for her death,” Locke said straight away. “But there’s something you must do for me before tomorrow’s assignment.”
“Whatever you desire, Mr. Chairman,” said the Apostle. “Consider me your obedient servant.”
CHAPTER 115
PEERING OUT THE WINDOW of her bedroom, Jennifer felt like a prisoner. Television vans crowded the narrow residential street below, and blathering reporters with blow-dried hairdos covered the sidewalk and walkway leading to her front porch. The vultures had her surrounded and were using her apartment as a stage prop. She was part of a case that was important to the press now, and though she had been released from police custody, they would not leave her alone until they found the real killer.
He was out there, somewhere in the city or maybe the mountains, celebrating his ignominious crime in private, cackling at the bungling police. Or perhaps he was out front, furtively watching her this very moment, preparing to strike. The thought chilled her to the marrow.
Turning away from the window, she opened her closet door, pulled out her Gregory backpack, and began filling it with clothing. Outside her bedroom in the living room were two FBI agents from the Springs resident agency. They would be escorting her to Ken in Denver.
Ken!
She couldn’t wait to see him. Thank God he had intervened on her behalf. She didn’t know what he had said to the cops to expedite her release, but it had worked. The time spent at the stinking police station had been one of the most humbling experiences of her life. In retrospect, it was obvious that she should have requested a lawyer right off the bat even though she was innocent. The cops had been such assholes, treating her like a murderer, intimidating her with their silly mind games, twisting her explanations to fit their simplified theories.
But now, at least, it was over.
Now her biggest priority was to finish her story, the scope of which had now been greatly expanded. Benjamin Locke, it seemed, was not just a renowned right-wing activist, bending the rules to put hard-liners in power. Instead, he was a full-fledged psychopath. In all likelihood he was behind the Kieger assassination, the killing of the computer programmer in Berkeley, and the clinic attack. Through Locke all of these events had to be connected: all she had to do was find out how.
But first, she had to talk to Ken and find out what he’d learned.
Ken! She knew in her heart she wanted to be with him for more than just the short term. She thought he felt the same way—indeed he had said so—but she still felt uncertain. They had both changed so much in twelve years. She had her career as a journalist and he had his as an FBI agent; she distrusted law enforcement agencies and he worked for the granddaddy of them all.
How in the world would they ever work that one out?
She went into the bathroom and gath
ered her toiletries, placing them into a black leather Dopp kit. Closing the kit with an audible zip, she walked back into the bedroom and stuffed it in her backpack.
Her cell phone rang, startling her.
Thinking it was Ken, she reached down and snatched it quickly off her bed. “Hello, Ken?”
“No, it’s Mr. Lampert. I need to talk to you.”
Jennifer’s heart sank. After everything that had happened today, the last person she wanted to talk to was Reid Farnsworth Lampert.
“We’re going to do an exclusive on the abortion clinic attack. I have J.R. Welch conferenced in. He’s standing right outside your apartment, ready to interview you.”
“Hello Jennifer—J.R. here.”
I don’t fucking believe this! She went to the window. As if on cue, a pair of cameramen turned up and began capturing her on film. To the right, fully in the lamplight, she could make out J.R. Welch in his trademark tweed jacket and bowtie. He was staring up at her with his cell phone pressed to his ear. When he waved, she wanted to give him the finger.
“I know its short notice, but this story’s huge,” Lampert said.
I was almost killed, you callous fools! This isn’t a story! This is my fucking life!
“You haven’t spoken to any reporters, have you? We have to have an exclusive.”
“No, I haven’t spoken to anyone except the police.”
“Good. We understand there are a couple of FBI agents there with you. Just tell them to let Mr. Welch upstairs so you can do the interview. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“An hour would be perfect,” J.R. Welch agreed.
Jennifer felt completely violated. Would they really do anything to get their exclusive, even if it meant trampling over her privacy in the process? “No way am I doing an interview right now.”
“But you have to. We need this story. And you don’t want to let Mr. Stavros down, do you? Imagine what it will do for your career. Especially when you follow up with the Kieger story.”
“Your name will be known in every household in America,” said J.R. Welch.
“Right now, my career is the farthest thing from my mind.”
“Please, Jennifer —I’m begging you,” groveled Lampert.
She couldn’t help a sardonic laugh. “So now I’m Jennifer. What happened to Miss Odden ?”
“What does it matter? The point is Mr. Stavros wants this story and we’ve only got three hours to deadline.”
She shook her head. “You people—you truly amaze me.”
There was a pause as Lampert seemed to formulate a new plan of attack. When his voice returned, it was flat-out desperate. “Okay, I’ve got a deal for you, a limited one-time offer. I’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars for your story on the clinic attack, and I’ll let you handle the Kieger story all by yourself. Right, Mr. Welch, isn’t that what we agreed?”
“That’s the deal. It’s your baby, Jennifer. All you have to do is give me one hour of your time and tell me, in your own words, what happened. Think about it. Today was the biggest abortion clinic attack in U.S. history. The whole country—make that the whole world—wants to know what was going through your mind when it all went down. Real-life drama doesn’t get any more visceral than this. This is a golden opportunity.”
Golden opportunity? Is he for real? She was becoming infuriated and decided it was time to end the conversation. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have to go now.”
Now Lampert’s voice turned threatening. “If you do this, the only publication you’ll ever sell another story to is the fucking Wichita Weekly !”
Jennifer had suspected he would threaten her like this. “I don’t think so, Reid. The New York Times just called five minutes before you.”
“The Times ? Are you serious? Listen to me, Jennifer, you’ve got to—”
“Bye, boys—gotta run,” and she punched off.
After turning off the cell phone so it wouldn’t receive calls, she grabbed her backpack and walked into the living room, feeling not just relieved to be rid of them, but a tad triumphant. The FBI agent with the pockmarked Noriega face put down the magazine he was reading and said, “Ready to go?”
“Almost. I have to grab one last thing.”
She walked into the kitchen, grabbed her daypack from the chair, and headed into the living room. Reaching for the nylon case next to the CD player, she flipped through her Dick’s Picks Grateful Dead CDs. After the horrible day, she needed some music for the trip to Denver. She felt like some early stuff, so she grabbed Fillmore East 2/13/70 and Harpur College 5/2/70 with the killer acoustic set featuring a wild romp of a Don’t Ease Me In .
“All right, I’m ready to go,” she said. “But can you big bad Hoover boys do me a favor?”
Noriega tipped his head in amused assent.
“Those media jackals outside—can you lose them for me?”
Noriega grinned through yellow smoker’s teeth. “It would be our pleasure, ma’am.”
CHAPTER 116
THROUGH HIS BINOCULARS, the Apostle watched with soldierly intrigue as the two men with the conservative suits, close-cropped hair, and stiff air of authority pushed their way through the swarming press, opening daylight for Jennifer Odden. Damned Boy Scouts, he thought to himself. Using their broad shoulders and sharp elbows, the FBI agents simultaneously shielded and escorted their package to the passenger seat of a green Subaru Outback. The pockmarked agent took the driver’s seat; the other agent climbed into the metallic-blue Mercury LeSabre directly behind the Outback.
The Apostle waited until both engines fired and the headlights flicked on before pulling away from the curb. He knew the route they would take to Denver, as well as their final destination, so he drove down the street in the opposite direction. The feebs would drive fast to lose the satellite vans, which meant that the best approach was to allow them to overtake him before getting on I-25. Then he would fall back into position and follow them to Denver.
He took a right onto Wahsatch. When he came to the 7-Eleven, he took a right onto Platte and passed the august statue of William Palmer, the city’s founding father, mounted on horseback in full military regalia. On his left he then drove passed Acacia Park, with its gently swaying trees and eclectic mix of loiterers, tourists, and businesspeople scurrying home from work. By the time he reached Cascade, he spotted his quarry coming up fast from behind.
He made his move.
When he crossed the two-way street, he turned right onto Bijou, taking the right-hand lane and slowing up to allow the two vehicles to catch up. Fountain Creek bubbled past as he crossed the steel bridge that would convey him to I-25 north. Just before the on-ramp, the cars overtook him. He eased in behind the Mercury with the lone FBI agent and merged with the traffic on the interstate.
It was a pleasant late afternoon for a game of cat and mouse, he thought. Though the sun had just dropped below the tops of the mountains and the air had turned cool, the western sky was streaked with beautiful watercolor hues of mauve and purple. There was nothing like a Colorado skyline except heaven itself—and even a professional assassin like the Apostle took a moment to appreciate how precious it was.
His thoughts turned to his assignment. There was no question it would be a challenge. The FBI agent Patton was big and strong and knew how to handle a gun, and Jennifer Odden had proved earlier today that she was a more than capable adversary. But the Apostle wasn’t worried. He liked the challenge of facing a formidable opponent. It made the ultimate triumph that much more gratifying.
He was hoping tonight’s enterprise would be particularly satisfying. Special Agent Patton and Jennifer Odden were well above the standard fare, and he was feeling hot in the loins.
His skin prickled with goosebumps at the thought of how it would all go down. Before he killed, he often fantasized about it. He pictured the entire gamut of facial responses he could expect: first shock, then fear, then absolute panic, and finally revulsion as the victim realized the silent intrude
r about to kill him was about to cream his trousers. Or was he?
Though the consummate professional when it came to an assignment, he also knew he was a sick, sick man. But even sick men had to have their fun. Sex with women no longer gave him pleasure. The very cruelty of his job had left him impotent when it came to normal intercourse. He hadn’t had a woman in years and had never really had anyone he could call a girlfriend. The only thing that got him off anymore was the fear in his victim’s faces.
But then the trick was to hold back from climaxing. Now that was self-control.
Semper fi and praise the Lord Jesus Christ the Savior!
By the time he reached the Air Force Academy turn-off, he had worked out the entire murder in his mind. He would take out Patton first, Jennifer Odden second. He would take his time with her, so that she would know precisely what the euphoric grimace on his face was all about. And then, at the last second, he would restrain himself through his masterful self-control.
It was important that his victims knew what was really going on in those final, fateful moments. That was what got him off.
Tonight, he thought. Tonight is going to be special!
CHAPTER 117
“SO GOMEZ IS JANE DOE, and Jane Doe’s our killer.”
“That’s my theory, yes,” replied Patton to his boss, and he proceeded to lay it all out. It took him ten minutes. Unlike most meetings, Sharp didn’t interrupt him once and nodded in agreement every so often. At one point, he even smiled. Patton found the ASAC’s behavior peculiar but said nothing.
“The facts seem to fit your theory,” Sharp said when Patton was finished. The tone was, for him, positively magnanimous. “Of course, it still doesn’t prove Gomez is Jane Doe. And it still doesn’t tell us who she’s working for, if not the Brigade. But it does seem to make sense.”
“I think she’s working for Benjamin Locke. I can’t prove it yet, but I will soon enough.”
Sharp looked at his watch, and Patton wondered if he had a previous appointment. “Okay, suppose I buy into that theory. What evidence do you have to support it?”
The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense Page 39