"I'm better than I look."
Her pop wouldn't let it go. "I mean everything you've been through lately. Your divorce, all the extra hours." Zula could see her pop was studying Hurd.
The lieutenant let out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "I'm just taking care of business, boss. But when all this is over, I wouldn't say no to a vacation."
Neither will we.
Zula made a tough decision. Outside, in the semi-privacy of her topless, doorless Jeep, she called Pepper. Miracle of miracles, he answered. She didn't lecture or yell at him. Instead, she told him everything Hurd and her father had said.
Long silence from Pepper. "Thank you," he finally said.
To change the topic, Zula hurriedly updated him on her research. "I found a marriage certificate for John and Isabel Bumpers, the officers on Scoter, Inc.?"
"Marriage certificate?"
"Yep. In Maryland. And then a divorce certificate, seven years later. But there was one juicy detail on the marriage certificate. The bride's maiden name? It was Isabel Concepcion."
"Concepcion, like Smith's chief of staff? Wow! So, Smith used his girl Friday as a pawn in his Scoter, Inc. venture with President Garby?"
"Unclear. I called John Bumpers in Maryland but he didn't want to talk much. He's a staff accountant at Treasury. He said he didn't know anything about being an officer of any corporations. And he didn't want to talk about their divorce, just said Lizzie'd had a miscarriage and their marriage imploded. I redid my background searches on Lizzie Concepcion to make sure I hadn't missed anything and found no criminal history, no hits…under Concepcion or Bumpers."
"Great job, Little Ike, way to dig deep! I owe you another breakfast!"
Be still, my beating heart.
"And if you'll research where I can find Justin Case, I'll throw in a slice of pie. I need to have a personal chat with that joker about why he was in my trailer."
Chapter Forty-Two
Sometimes a tip can save an investigation. Sometimes, a job. Like maybe the anonymous call Pepper Ryan received on his cell phone, as he drove back to the station. He didn't recognize the voice, but still—how could he not jump?
A few minutes later, Pepper burst into Chief Eisenhower's office, waving his phone at the General. "Sir, I just got a blind call with info where Westin and his last few guys are hiding out! Sorry I'm late for our meeting, I'm sorry about everything. No name, but the tip was specific and I want to hit it. But it's your call…"
The U.S. Secret Service, assisted by Hyannis law enforcement and other local resources, including Pepper Ryan and Lieutenant Hurd representing the New Albion police, raided the Sanddollar Motel at 1 PM. The General didn't join them—for the sake of his blood pressure he was going to be off for a few hours that afternoon. First time in weeks.
Special Agent Alfson wasn't available to join the raid. He'd explained to Pepper by phone that he was 'out of pocket'. The FLOTUS and the twins were on a shopping trip to Boston—tearing Newbury Street a new one—and with the Westin manhunt sucking up resources, he'd been pressed into protective service.
"Well, avoid Boston's meter maids, they bite if you try to pet them," Pepper had said, and had promised to keep his partner up on any progress. Pepper was feeling giddy and the goodwill even reached his partner.
Ten minutes later, three SWAT vehicles crawled into the motel parking lot and teams simultaneously hit rooms ten and sixteen. Other law enforcement vehicles skidded into every available inch of the lot.
No one was in room ten.
But three men were in room sixteen. Three men possessing handguns with silencers. Which the three men actually had out, but not exactly in hand because they were playing cards. The crash team had all three men flat on the cheap tile floor, arms wrenched up behind them, cuffed and stuffed before they could snatch up their weapons and get off a single shot.
But Brian-Edward Westin wasn't one of them. None of them matched descriptions of the missing New River Front members. It appeared they were… three other guys? Three guys waiting with lights out for the right suspects? Cautious friends, to have handguns with silencers at the near ready. Friends, or an ambush?
When the three men were removed to three separate police vehicles, the scene quickly switched from jacked-up attack mode to the bureaucratic rhythm of a crime scene. A crowd of looky-loos appeared in moments--the sleepy guests in the Sanddollar's other rooms spilled out onto the walkway in various levels of dress. A perimeter of passers-by. The majority holding up cell phones, capturing everything, hoping for something exciting to happen. But actually just capturing Pepper's latest failure. He stood among the other agents and cops, chagrined. Had they been played?
A Secret Service team led the effort to process the two rooms. The first pass yielded nothing dramatic. Small duffels, some basic clothing. Junk food wrappers. No physical evidence that anyone staying in the room had been plotting to kill the POTUS or had committed the other murders. They would run fingerprints and DNA, of course, and hopefully they'd get a real hit among the endless people who'd come and gone from the two rooms in recent months. Something to tell them specifically who they were chasing.
Pepper rubbed his temples--he felt the beginnings of a pretty good headache. Pepper also hoped for pictures of the rooms' occupants, but unfortunately the Sanddollar was one of the few remaining motels in America without security cameras. The desk clerk had shrugged helplessly in lieu of explanation—nope, he just worked there. Pepper guessed that maybe some guests didn't want their presence at a local motel on tape... Hyannis officers were canvassing nearby businesses to see whether anyone else had joined the 21st century and had picked something up on a security camera.
Then, maybe two breaks?
First, a Hyannis sergeant and one of the Secret Service agents brought over a woman to talk to Pepper. Lieutenant Hurd had disappeared somewhere. The woman on the larger side and pretty tough looking. Maybe in her forties. Or fifties. Or sixties? Bathrobe on, but untied. Showing that she was wearing a Disney t-shirt, but not, unfortunately, a bra. With a little kid firmly in each hand, little white faces--intent on everything that was happening.
"This lady's been staying in room thirteen for a while," said the Hyannis cop. Didn't say it, but everyone was thinking it: Section Eight housing.
The woman gave a thin smile. "Two other assholes were staying in those rooms, not the ones you caught. The real assholes? They parked in my spot. Every goddamn day this week. I complained but that doorknob," she pointed at the reception desk clerk who was being interviewed nearby, "was too chickenshit to do anything." She just glared at Pepper, kind of defiant, like she had nothing to lose.
He nodded, taking her gripe seriously. "What'd the men look like?"
"The older guy was like that old actor with the smile who sells gold coins. William Devane? But fatter. And he talked like a foreigner. The younger one looked regular."
"Regular?"
"Just a regular guy. But with glasses."
Pepper gave her a second. Trying to be patient.
"But I got them on video on my phone. And pictures, parking in my spot."
Pictures? Video?
"Three different cars, but it was definitely the same assholes every time," she said. "I knew those fuckers weren't tourists. Oh, and the younger one might be a crossdresser."
"Pardon?"
"The younger one. He came back a couple days ago dressed like a woman. Or maybe a wizard. I didn't get a picture of that, I wish! But who should I text the videos to? And what's the reward?"
"Let's start from the beginning," said Pepper. "Do you know the makes of the three cars?"
She nodded smugly. "A blue Impala. Then a green Taurus. Then some reddish Buick. All the cars were dirty because they were slobs. The Impala even had a word writ in the dirt on its back window."
Pepper thought about something he'd heard days ago, thought it was worth a guess. "Did the word say 'Asshole’?"
The woman looked surprised, then pleased. "Tha
t's the one!" She crossed her thick arms. Pride of authorship?
So Marcus Dunne must have seen that same car when Keser was being snatched. But the Secret Service agent and the Hyannis sergeant were looking at him funny.
Pepper pulled up Westin's picture on his phone, mixed in with pictures of five other men. Pepper scrolled through them for the woman, asked if any were a match to the two men.
"Nope," she said, certain. "But I saw that guy on the news." Pointing to Westin's picture. So the tip had been a dud?
But then came the second break. The Secret Service team processing room sixteen came out displaying a plastic bag. Lieutenant Hurd was with them and he was beaming. Snapping off his latex gloves triumphantly.
The bag held a small, thin water bottle.
"Look what they found wedged behind the nightstand!' crowed Hurd. "Looks like one of the water bottles missing from Agent Keser's jogging belt."
And one of Alfson's female agents—Parkins?—held up an evidence bag with one large cartridge in it. "This was under the bed, tucked right against its leg," she said. "Maybe a .308... what you'd use for big-game hunting. Or worse."
Like for a sniper rifle. "I bet it matches the casings in the cemetery," Pepper said. He felt adrenaline wash through him, blushing away his headache. So maybe Westin and his crew hadn't been using the Sanddollar Motel, but some other arm of the Red Starfish conspiracy had!
"Any of you know when Special Agent Alfson's due back from Boston?" Pepper asked the agents.
"Boston? No, Alfson's been at the compound all day, he wasn't on the team that went to Boston. He had something more important at Eagle's Nest."
More important than this raid? It took some of the euphoria out of Pepper—what was his sneaky partner up to now?
Oliver and Croke really needed to find themselves a new place to stay.
Earlier that day, they'd handled a last-minute job from the client. That wasn't Oliver's professional style but this time it worked out. Simple and clean, the guy never knew what hit him. As directed by the client, they'd stashed the body in a particular boat shed on the New Albion/Chatham line. Because the client didn't want any publicity this time.
Then Oliver and Croke had done a scouting drive-by of two veterinary clinics in the area for Oliver to choose one to drop in on, after hours, to borrow some more atricurium besylate. Atricurium was his go-to method for immobilizing targets. It made life simpler, causing their target's muscles to relax almost instantaneously. Followed by short-term paralysis, which gave them plenty of time to secure the victim with zip ties or handcuffs and get away to a quieter location to finish up.
At the rate they were going, Oliver needed to replenish his supplies as soon as they could take a minute from kidnapping and murdering people…
Business was really piling up.
Then, as they'd arrived back at the Sanddollar Motel, Croke had been about to hook a left into the lot when Oliver—paranoid and watchful at this point—saw the goddamn curtain in Croke's room slightly move. It had definitely moved, it was not his imagination.
Oliver had nudged Croke to pull over at the lot's far end, nowhere near their rooms. It wasn't a maid—they stick their cart in the door, prop it wide open. And he and Croke had put their crummy do not disturb signs on their rooms' knobs that morning.
So they had company. Cops? Or worse, people sent up from Queens by them? Oliver could think of no innocent explanation.
They'd gotten the hell out of there. Made one stop at an old-fashioned pay phone, where Oliver put in a brief call to the famous police officer, Pepper Ryan, and lied that he could find the New River Front fugitives at the Sanddollar Motel in their rooms. Oliver and Croke had circled back close enough to wait and see an avalanche of police arrive seventy-five minutes later, then they'd driven away with big, smug smiles. Because whoever had been waiting in Croke's room to ambush them got exactly what they deserved…
Oliver was surprised to be sad that the Sanddollar Motel was dead to them. But they needed something a little more private anyway. Cape Cod had too many cops and too many cameras in public places... Now they were cruising along in the Buick LaCross with the sniper rifle and ammo in their trunk (Oliver having decided not to leave it under the bed, a genius move that Croke would never congratulate him for).
They were arguing about their next move but avoiding the big accusation Oliver wanted to hit Croke with—did he fucking talk to them behind Oliver's back? Not a conversation to have while driving down the road, since it would probably end with one of them shooting the other.
One more day and Oliver was getting the hell off Cape Cod, no matter what they or the client said. Fuck him. The temperature was just getting too high for Oliver and Croke and they were going to slip up eventually, get taken down by one side or the other.
It didn't help that now Croke was talking to himself under his breath in his coarse Eastern European mutter. Checking his rear view mirror every few seconds. Kinda freaking out. Oliver was concerned about their situation but he was still feeling his karmic groove. Everything would work out, at least for him…
And of course Croke had it in his head he wanted a cheeseburger for a late lunch. Oliver said what the hell, sounds good. Humor the fucking bonehead—he didn't seem to be acting like a guilty traitor. They parked briefly to shift their disguises. Then they stopped at a little nothing diner in the town of Orleans, on a road actually called Cranberry Highway.
When their food came, Croke started grousing about his cheeseburger not coming with pickles. Who serves a cheeseburger that way. On and on.
But Oliver didn't commiserate with him—he was totally focused on a thick, old TV on a shelf behind the counter. Its sound was off, but he could see it was on a news channel. The footage showed three men in police custody in the Sanddollar Motel parking lot, being perp walked to police vehicles. They could have been pulled from central casting of a Godfather movie. The cops too. A subtitle on the screen called the three men Persons of Interest. One of the cops crowding into the camera shot was the big-nosed lieutenant, grinning like a fool!
But those three fuckers lying in wait in Croke's room? Oliver's best guess was Croke had carried out his idea to call the bosses in Queens himself. They probably offered to send someone down to discuss the situation. By someone, they meant three men with weapons. And by discuss, they meant kill. Which Croke had not twigged to.
Oliver's thought process was derailed when the picture on the TV changed to grainy, still pictures of Oliver and Croke. Shit. Had his manipulation of that Pepper Ryan backfired?
Then the news cut back to video footage again, another shock—the Chatham librarian! She was being interviewed, probably blabbing about every visit Oliver and Croke had made to her library. And by now the cops were undoubtedly digging into the computer Oliver used, which better have no traces of his chat room activities. What's the world coming to when you can't even trust librarians? He didn't tell Croke to turn and check out the TV since he wasn't sure how Croke would handle the news. Luckily, at that moment the special phone buzzed in Oliver's pocket.
Of course it was the client, again bypassing Oliver and Croke's bosses. Which seemed completely fair, now that their bosses had tried to have Oliver and Croke whacked. Screw them!
The client didn't even mention the Sanddollar Motel situation or the rest of the bad news. Maybe he hadn't seen it yet? The client was just calling with their next job—an oldie but a goodie—to kill Pepper Ryan right this time. Oliver was truly embarrassed by their fuck-ups and what he'd just seen on the TV screen and so didn't even acknowledge the client's sarcasm.
The client went on to share some special information about Pepper Ryan that would make catching and killing him so easy. Oliver wrote the details down on his cheap placemat depicting seashells of Cape Cod. And then, icing on the frigging cake, the client volunteered to double their pay for the Ryan hit.
What could Oliver say but yes sir!
Chapter Forty-Three
"Too bad about
the NRF motel thing," said Special Agent Alfson. "And I'd love to answer your many questions but as you know, my job description requires jumping in front of bullets. I'm tied up on protection the next while. Nothing I can do. How about we meet later tonight, maybe?"
Pepper still believed deep down that Alfson was hiding important secrets at Eagle's Nest. And he believed it was time to confront his dear partner, right there at ground zero. He would tell Alfson all about Blacklock. And demand access to the whole Red Starfish file from Alfson. The whole truth about the Secret Service's part of the investigation. His gut told him he was missing key info and that Alfson held it, even if the skinny know-it-all didn't know how important it was.
So Pepper hung up and did the only logical thing. He headed to Eagle's Nest to catch Alfson in his lie. And hopefully get immediate answers to some other questions that had been evaded too damn long.
No one was taking a chance that the assassination threat hadn't ended with the failed attempt on July Fourth. Security was even tighter now, as Pepper slowly advanced into Eagle's Nest. The list and database check at the first checkpoint. At the second, the canine unit was twice as thorough as before. And at the final checkpoint, they took away his ID again and interviewed him—what was his business today?
He said he was there to touch base with Special Agent Alfson. To synergize, move the needle. Gave them a full measure of Alfson's typical mumbo-jumbo. And that of course he was expected. Which was kind of true—Alfson was smart enough to expect that Pepper wouldn't be snowed that easy and definitely wouldn't take no for an answer, right?
Pepper eventually made it in.
Killing Shore Page 24