Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  “That’s interesting. How did he die?”

  “Apparent heart attack.”

  “Common enough in men his age.”

  “Halpern was extremely fit. In any case, they wanted someone who didn’t have a vested interest in the company to take over—at least temporarily.”

  “I’ll go to ADL. Might be worth having a chat with Mr. Vilari. He may know of Halpern’s concerns. I’ll try to see Ms. Boxer too.”

  “Thanks, Lucas. I hope I’m wrong and Brandon’s gone off to find himself or something.” The commander’s face relaxed and grew serious again. “If that’s the case, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s great to see you.” I stood to stretch my legs. “If you write down those names and the address of ADL, I’ll get going.”

  As he wrote, Gates said, “By the way, having Mac at your back in no way diminishes the respect I have for your ability. But we’ve always worked as a team and had good results, so why stop now?”

  “I have no problem with teamwork, but I like to know where the players are and not have them sneak up on me.”

  The commander looked about to defend himself, but any more discussion was interrupted by a knock on the door. Gates opened it to Johnson, who handed the commander a brown envelope. “Thank you,” he said. Returning to his desk, he sliced an edge of the envelope with a letter opener. He glanced inside before pulling out what appeared to be an eight by ten photograph.

  Contrary to the commander’s previous stoic expression, the color drained from his tanned face and his hands shook.

  “What is it, Commander?” Instead of words, he handed me the photo.

  A young man in his twenties, and who fit the physical description of Brandon Gates, sat in a chair bound and gagged with an expression of terror in his eyes.

  Chapter 17

  Detective Ray Scully two-finger typed his notes from a witness who had come forward with information. A bet as to whose badass tattoo would attract the attention of the neighborhood temptress had been settled with a nine-millimeter bullet.

  Located near a window and as far from the entrance as possible, the prime location of his desk was a perk of seniority. After twenty years with the NYPD, he was used to the clash of chatter, ringing phones, and visitors traipsing in and out. He glanced up into the face of his partner, Sean McCarthy.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Scully hated when McCarthy stole up and waited for him to sense his presence.

  “Feels like a week. In the time it takes you to type a report, I could write an encyclopedia.”

  “Right. On your best day, you need help spelling your name.” Scully saved his work and exited the file. “What’s up?”

  McCarthy plopped into his chair at the desk in front of Scully’s and spun around to face him. “That guy in the trash? Name is Frank Giaconne. Ring any bells?”

  Scully sipped his cold coffee. “I can’t say it does. Any reason why it should?”

  “I found him in ViCAP. He’s a convicted felon. He served fourteen years for vehicular homicide—DWI. I thought it might have passed over your desk.” He handed Scully a page of the report.

  “I see by the dates why it’s not familiar. I was working the Holt kidnapping.”

  McCarthy nodded. “Right, I heard about that. Way before my time.” Sean McCarthy had been Scully’s partner for the last five years. Still not jaded after a decade on the force, McCarthy’s enthusiasm for his job amused Scully. However, he admired the younger officer’s genuine empathy for innocent victims and their loved ones. McCarthy sighed. “Must have been a tough one.”

  “Toughest case I ever worked—for as long as I was able to. Holt was my best friend—still is. Even though we all hoped Marnie was alive, eventually we had to accept the possibility that we were looking for a body and a murderer. That’s when Holt left. He would never believe his daughter was dead.” Scully smiled, remembering the photo Holt had shown him.

  “Something funny?”

  “What? No. I was thinking Marnie would be sixteen now.” Scully stood to stretch his legs. “Anything else on Giaconne?”

  “He was released four months ago.” McCarthy flipped to another page. “Last known address is in Staten Island. He was shot in the chest. Nothing exciting at the scene. It sounds to me as if someone waited a long time to pay off an old debt. This case might be a ball buster.”

  Scully scoffed. “Piece of cake.”

  “Yeah, right.” McCarthy set the report down and spun back to his desk.

  ***

  Scully plodded down the long whitewashed hallway in the bowels of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City. He hated visiting the autopsy room, sometimes referred to as “the pit,” but it was a necessary evil of police work. A sizeable landscape of a vivid sea and sky hung opposite the entrance. Wonder if the morgue residents appreciate art. He peered through the large glass window. Bill Grady, an ebony-skinned, gangling man, way past his prime, shoved a rack of plastic-wrapped corpses into a compartment and closed the door. Scully tapped on the glass and held up his badge. Grady shuffled over, adjusting his thick glasses. He didn’t bother to look at Scully’s ID. “Can I help you, officer?” he said through the glass.

  “Detective—Scully.” Grady worked in the autopsy room for as long as Scully was a detective. He marveled at the attendant’s knack for remembering corpse details but not a detective’s name. Scully thought it was a deliberate case of selective memory. “Is Dr. Bishop around?” The morgue attendant opened the door to the white-tiled room.

  “Should be here soon.” Grady glanced at the wall clock “Got an autopsy in fifteen minutes.”

  Scully shivered as he walked through a refrigerated section of the morgue. The skin and hairs on his neck raised, and he tugged his jacket closed. He knew the chill was temporary and after a few minutes around a cadaver, he would begin to sweat. Never comfortable in what was nothing more than a human meat locker, no matter how much they disinfected and tried to mask the odor, he always smelled decay.

  Scully recalled the first time he and Holt witnessed an autopsy. Overwhelmed by the barbaric procedure, he was on the verge of vomiting when Holt saved him from the embarrassment. Pretending to get an emergency call, Holt had whisked them both out and into the fresh air. Holt had gone back himself with an excuse for his partner’s absence. Eventually, Scully found a way to overcome the queasiness but still avoided autopsies whenever possible.

  Grady moved to a stainless steel autopsy table at the center of the room on which a half-covered corpse lay. A scale, for weighing body parts, was hanging from the ceiling over the table. A gurney stood nearby, holding tools of the trade including a Stryker saw and a variety of hammers and knives used to tear through flesh, bone, and muscle.

  Looks like the set of a horror movie.

  “Detective Scully, I thought I might see someone from your precinct.”

  Scully turned to the sound of the pathologist’s voice. Dr. Eddie Bishop’s goateed face barely rose from the file he was reading as he walked and talked. A slight-framed sixty-something, Dr. Bishop’s free spirit and penchant for wearing tie-dyed t-shirts hailed from his Woodstock days. He moved in easy strides toward Scully. He dropped the file to his side. “How have you been, Detective? Haven’t seen you around here lately. Delegating the choice tasks to all the unsuspecting rookie detectives?”

  Scully laughed. “Hey, everyone has to learn the ropes. I’m good. I’m here to see one of your guests. Frank Giaconne.”

  “Ah, yes.” Dr. Bishop motioned to Grady. “Bill, can you show us the dumpster dude?” They followed behind the morgue attendant, who opened a lower compartment door and pulled out the rack holding Giaconne.

  “You missed the show, Detective. We finished him this morning.” Detective Scully focused on Frank Giaconne’s head and torso. Discoloration due to decomposition could not hide the deep facial bruising evident around Giaconne’s left eye and cheek. Scully glanced at the victim�
��s open eyes, a nutty brown, his thinning hair, and large Roman nose. The torso bore the obvious markings of a chest wound. Scully looked at Giaconne’s face again. He looks familiar. Where have I seen him before?

  “…wound to the chest.” Bishop’s words broke into Scully’s thoughts. He turned to face the pathologist.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. Can you repeat what you said about the wound?”

  “Pay attention, Detective. I’m very busy.” Bishop sounded annoyed, but Scully saw him smile as he scanned his report. “Simply put, the victim died as a result of a nine millimeter bullet to the chest and was shot at close range. Death was within a few minutes of being shot, which we estimate to be between one a.m. and four a.m. on the twelfth.”

  Scully looked again at Giaconne. The man’s arms were muscular, his neck thick. He appeared sturdy except for the excess girth. “What about the bruising on his face?”

  “Those injuries were sustained at the same time. Someone right hooked him before they shot him.”

  “I don’t see any defensive wounds on his arms or hands.”

  “That’s correct. But the victim’s alcohol level shows he’d had quite a bit to drink that night.”

  “Hmm. So if someone wanted to rob him, all they had to do was give him a few more punches and the theft would have been easy.”

  Doctor Bishop shrugged. “I provide the facts and you detectives draw your own conclusions. I will say it’s a possibility; it would also depend on his street-fighting skills. It would have taken someone strong to heave him into the dumpster. Given Giaconne’s size, he might have survived a small caliber bullet.”

  Scully pondered the doctor’s assumption. The assailant had planned to kill. “Any personal effects?”

  “Yes. Grady?” The attendant nodded his understanding of what the doctor wanted, slid Giaconne back inside the compartment, and left the room.

  Doctor Bishop moved to his next case on the autopsy table. Scully spoke to distract him. “Has the next of kin confirmed his identity?”

  “Yes. His brother. It’s all in the report that should be available by the time you get back to your precinct.” Grady returned with a bag of items and laid them on a nearby table.

  Scully made quick work of examining Giaconne’s clothing. I need to get out of here before the doc digs into his next case. There was a watch, a gold pinky ring, and a business card. He picked it up and twisted toward Doctor Bishop who was rearranging his tools. The doctor glanced at Scully. “He didn’t have much on him.”

  Detective Scully considered the fact that if Giaconne was the victim of a robbery, why only take his wallet and not the watch and ring? But more than that, he wondered why Giaconne carried Lucas Holt’s business card.

  Chapter 18

  The photo of Brandon Gates brought the case to a new level. My first reaction was to suggest the commander call in the FBI. Kidnappings are in their jurisdiction, but after my clash with Dick and Brains, I thought better of it. The commander’s fears were realized, and I harbored some guilt for suggesting Brandon was involved in terrorist activity.

  I still wondered why the FBI was using Somers to spy on Brandon.

  There was no message with the photo. Whoever sent it wanted Gates to know they had Brandon and, at some point, there would be a demand. I doubted it was money. That request would have come before or with the delivery of the photo. In light of my conversation with Gates about ADL and the former CEO’s hiring of Gates Global Protection, I decided to talk with Robert Vilari.

  ***

  American Defense Laboratories occupied a seven-story concrete and glass building near Bethesda’s metro center. I introduced myself to the receptionist at the desk in the lobby and asked to see Dr. Vilari. Gates had called ahead to clear my visit. I was told he’d see me, but I had to pass through security beforehand. An armed guard escorted me to a scanner, much like the ones used in airports and courthouses. I emptied my pockets into a tray and entered the machine. After a quick pass of the x-ray, I was allowed to proceed to the elevators, which I took to the fourth floor.

  Vilari greeted me at the reception area. “Mr. Holt, how can I help you?”

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk?” I glanced around the seating area where two people were waiting. “Maybe someplace more private.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, seemingly surprised he didn’t suggest it himself. “Come to my office.”

  A decent size room, his office had a separate seating area, but he directed me to one of two rigid-backed chairs on one side of his desk. Although he agreed to see me, I doubted he wanted me to get comfortable. I didn’t make him wait for me to get to the point.

  “Dr. Vilari, Mark Halpern’s death has come up in a discussion with a client. Can you tell me if he had any particular concerns about the security of the latest project you’re working on?”

  Vilari did his best to appear calm, but I could tell by the worry lines etched on his forehead and the stiff way he sat that he was both tense and angry. Even if he dodged the question, I knew the answer.

  “Mr. Holt, I can’t comment on our research.”

  “I’m not asking you about your research, I want to know how concerned Halpern was with regard to its security.”

  “We have excellent security. It was a top priority for Mark and continues to be for ADL. There’s no need for any concern.”

  “Yet he told my client that he was worried the labs were not secure—enough to add an armed guard.”

  “We have an armed guard in the lobby. That’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Vilari tugged on his shirt collar and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “I understand you head a team working in one of the labs.” He nodded. “Is that the lab Halpern was concerned about?”

  “Again, I can’t comment on ADL’s research.”

  “Most of the technicians have worked with you for some time.”

  “Yes. They are a dedicated group. Above reproach, in my opinion.”

  “What about the latest addition to your team, Alexander Hoffman? Do you believe he is above reproach?”

  “What are you suggesting, Mr. Holt? Our technicians come highly recommended and are thoroughly vetted.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely getting a lay of the land. I’m trying to find out why Mark Halpern was concerned enough to hire Gates Global Protection to secure your lab. I can’t believe Halpern never discussed it with you.”

  “Of course we talked about security.”

  “So you knew he was concerned. He told you he was adding an armed guard to your already heavily secured laboratory?”

  Vilari looked past me to the office door as if hoping for an interruption.

  “Actually, I found out after I returned from a recent business trip to Lebanon that he was adding more security.”

  It was interesting that Vilari had traveled to the same country for which Brandon had a visa application. Perhaps there was a connection after all.

  “Dr. Vilari, do you spend a lot of time in the Middle East on business?”

  Vilari rose and poured himself a glass of iced water from a nearby wet bar. He didn’t offer any to me. He drank half and returned to his seat. “A fair amount of time. What has that to do with why you are here?”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere with Vilari, and I needed to give him a reason to answer my questions.

  “I have it on good authority that Halpern had specific concerns about the security of your lab and hired Gates Global Protection to ease those concerns. Dr. Vilari, did you find Halpern’s death suspicious?”

  Richard Vilari looked about to choke. His face was red, and I thought the white-knuckled clasp of his hands could break bones. Vilari shouted when he spoke.

  “Mark Halpern died of a heart attack; he wasn’t murdered! Why would someone kill him?” Vilari appeared to ask himself the last question. He shook his head. “No, it’s not possible. Where are all these conspiracy theories coming from? Murder. Theft.”

  “I said nothi
ng about theft, but now that you mention it—”

  “What?” Vilari loosened his tie. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Dr. Vilari, you seem upset. I have permission to tell you my client is Charles Gates. He had a conversation with Mark Halpern—”

  “Then why don’t you ask Mr. Gates all these questions? He might know more than I do.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would Charles Gates hire a private investigator to find out if Mark Halpern had security concerns?”

  I thought it was a good question, and I was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. A woman in a perfectly fitted suit walked into the office. Vilari bolted from his seat.

  “Ms. Boxer.” Her name came out of Vilari’s mouth with breathy relief.

  Vilari bounded around the desk to greet his guest and escort her back to where I sat. “Mr. Holt, this is—”

  “Celeste Boxer, ADL’s CEO,” the woman said, cutting off Vilari and giving him her back as she extended her hand for a shake.” I stood and faced her. “Mr. Holt, we have a deadline and Dr. Vilari is busy, so let me take you to my office and you can tell me why you’re here.”

  She turned and walked toward the door. I had no choice but to follow. I shook Vilari’s clammy hand, further evidence he was nervous, and thanked him for his time. Celeste Boxer strode with the grace of a runway model to the elevator and hit the up button. While I didn’t feel threatened, she exuded a strong aura of command. From our brief introduction, I knew her statuesque and feminine appearance belied a force to be reckoned with.

  We didn’t speak during the short ride in the elevator, but I could see her looking at me in our reflection on the metal button panel. Her lips curled into a smile when our eyes met. I smiled back. The brief flirtation was broken when the doors opened.