“C’mon, baby,” said Alton, willing the bar to change colors.
The bar turned solid green, and the program emitted a double beep. Alton released his breath in relief just as his phone chimed with the program’s incoming GPS text.
“Where is he?” asked Fuentes.
“Cerro Dragón,” said Alton. “Dragon Hill. It looks like it’s on the northern coast.”
“Exactly,” said Fuentes. “It’s no wonder Quintana had to use his phone. There’s nothing up there. This program of yours…it is still tracking his phone?”
“Yep,” said Alton, “as long as the battery has juice.”
“Then let’s move out,” said the captain.
The members of the combined police and NSA teams scrambled, loading themselves and a small arsenal of weapons into three police Rav4s. Tuttle, who had just returned from the guest hut, hoisted himself into the back seat of the trailing vehicle.
Alton rode in the passenger seat of Fuentes’ lead vehicle in order to maintain an unbroken focus on the fugitive’s location. “Go northwest,” he said as they bumped along ill-maintained roads. “All the way to the northern coast.”
They drove for nearly an hour and a half, bouncing along the only paved road cutting across the eastern half of the island. Alton watched his phone. Quintana’s location never changed.
Soon the rocky northern shore rolled into view. Seagulls and frigates circled the churning surf, and scores of marine iguanas sunned themselves on ancient lava flows. A small village with a few shops for eco-tourists hugged the shoreline off to the right. Several locals looked up as the unusual convoy screamed down the road.
“Hang a left at the T-intersection up ahead,” said Alton. “It shouldn’t be far.”
The tires of Fuentes’ SUV protested the sharp curve, and Alton felt himself pressed against the window for a moment. Fuentes accelerated out of the curve and shot along the shoreline.
After five minutes of driving along a dirt road, Alton gave a warning. “Slow down. We’re almost on top of him.” He did a double-take as the GPS homing dot on his cellphone screen trembled. The map shifted to the left, keeping the dot centered on the screen as the location of Quintana’s phone began to change.
“He’s on the move!” said Alton. “Looks like he’s on a parallel road a little further inland. Double back. We’ll see if there’s a cut-through road that’ll take us to the one he’s on.”
Alton shouted into his cellphone, warned the trailing vehicles just as Fuentes slammed on the brakes. The captain cut the wheel and raced back in the direction of the village.
“Are you familiar with the road he’s on?” asked Alton.
“No,” said Fuentes, his voice vibrating in time with the bumpy road. “I don’t come up here much.”
“There,” said Alton, pointing to a lane branching off to the right. “The map says it goes through to the road Quintana is on.”
Fuentes swung onto the road and accelerated out of the corner. Alton grasped a ceiling strap in an effort to stay focused on his phone.
“He’s already passed us,” said Alton. “Take a left on the next road.”
Fuentes took the corner at a dangerous pace. Dried brush and interspersed volcanic boulders flashed past the speeding vehicle.
“Okay, we’re directly behind him now,” said Alton. “Let’s close the gap.”
The road led to the western edge of the shoreline village. Fuentes neared the town, racing by dilapidated shacks, gardens, and barred storefronts as they closed the distance to the fleeing vehicle. Alton caught a fleeting glimpse of a battered, white pickup truck but couldn’t make out any detail. He alternated his attention between the road and the tracker program on his phone, directing Fuentes as the fugitive executed a series of sharp turns in a desperate bid to lose his pursuers.
“He’s on the malacón,” said Alton, referring to the main road running along the shoreline, “heading east.”
Fuentes slowed to avoid a group of chatting teenagers sauntering across the road. He flashed his police lights and opened up a blast of the siren, sending the pedestrians scurrying out of the way.
“Quintana’s stopped,” said Alton. “Go a little further. He should be up on the right.”
Fuentes pulled up a hundred yards or so. On the left, the city’s pier jutted into dark Pacific waters, while on the right, a perpendicular road meandered off into the town’s center.
“The app says he’s just down that road,” said Alton, “but I don’t see his truck.”
Fuentes pulled onto the road and crept forward a few dozen yards.
“Look, there it is!” said Alton, pointing a beat-up, white S10 ensconced behind a delivery van.
“I see the truck, but where’s Quintana?” asked Fuentes.
Alton jumped out of the SUV and limped over to the S10 as fast as he could. He peered inside and spotted a cellphone lying on the driver’s seat. “He ditched the phone and left!”
Fuentes began to search, and Alton called the other investigators. “Fan out from my location. Quintana’s trying to escape on foot.”
The two SUVs containing the rest of the team pulled to a screeching stop. The investigators poured out of the vehicles and spread out, hoping to locate the suspect before he had a chance to disappear.
Mallory stepped into the main road and scanned the surroundings. “Look!” she cried, pointing. “There he is, in that skiff!”
Quintana sat in a fifteen-foot fishing boat, motoring away from the pier into open water.
Fuentes, Mallory, the Gooch, and Alton raced towards the pier. In seconds, Alton began to fall behind. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself forward into an awkward trot. He reached his companions just as Fuentes and his police badge had convinced the owner of a tourist cigarette boat to lend them his vessel.
“Be careful with my boat,” said the owner, whose slicked-back hair and aloha shirt screamed surfer dude. “That’s my livelihood.”
“You pilot!” Fuentes commanded. “That way you don’t worry so much.”
The investigators and Surfer Dude piled into the boat. Surfer bubbled his craft away from the pier, then throttled open the engine, arcing the vessel into open water and sending it shooting over the waves.
Alton leaned over so the pilot could hear him over the road of the engines. “Over there…to the left. Catch up to that silver skiff with the blue stripe.”
Surfer nodded and shot towards the escaping fishing boat. Within seconds, he pulled alongside the craft. Quintana looked up from the rudder he had been holding and stared in surprise.
Fuentes and the Gooch jumped into Quintana’s craft. The fugitive looked to the shore, apparently considering his odds of an ocean-bound escape. He moved to the side of the boat and crouched. Before he could jump, the Gooch grabbed him around the waist and wrestled him to the bottom of the boat.
Fuentes moved over and peered down on the suspect. “Jaime Quintana, I arrest you for the abduction and possible murder of Dr. Jan Summit.”
CHAPTER 68
A bedraggled Jaime Quintana sat in a plain, metallic chair in the middle of the Fuentes’ office.
“We caught you trying to break into Summit’s research facility,” said the captain. “And we caught you running away from us up on the northern shore. How do you expect me to believe you don’t know anything about Summit’s disappearance?” He glared at the suspect.
“Because it’s the truth,” replied Quintana, his eyes frightened but defiant.
“So that means you should be able to tell me where you were Thursday night of last week.”
“I was with my wife at home.”
“Yeah, right,” said Fuentes. “I guess you were with your wife at the exact times five people were killed this past week, too.”
Quintana’s eyes grew wide, then his mouth set in grim determination. “I’m not saying anything else.”
“Captain?” said Alton, motioning to the door.
“Lieutenant, keep your eyes on this ma
n,” he told Rios as he exited the office.
Fuentes joined the Americans in the lobby of the police station. He poured a cup of java from an ancient Mr. Coffee resting on a side desk, stirred in some sugar, and took a sip.
“What now?” asked the Gooch. “Quintana says he wasn’t involved with Summit’s abduction or the murders.”
Fuentes snorted. “What else is he gonna say? ‘Yeah, I killed five people.’”
“But why?” said Alton. “What’s his motive? Do we really think that guy is selling stolen scientific research on the intellectual-property black market?”
“How can we know?” said Fuentes. “You saw him. He won’t talk to anyone. Whether he talks or not, he’s our primary suspect, and he’s in custody. I’m feeling a lot better about this case.”
“But a conviction might be tricky,” said Mallory. “All you have is circumstantial evidence. Why don’t I get a mouth swab? I can send it to my forensics lab to compare his DNA to the sample they extracted from the tortoise necklace Gooch recovered. A match would provide physical evidence that Quintana fled from Summit’s lab the night Alton chased him. It’d make a conviction a little more certain.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Fuentes. “Do you have the right kind of packaging to send it?”
“Yes. The hotel gave me and Alton all of Delaney’s stuff. She has sterile evidence kits for shipping stuff like that. I put it in Rios’ filing cabinet.”
“Okay,” said Fuentes, “If you can get your sample today, I will send it in first thing tomorrow morning.”
Mallory collected the sample from Quintana, sealed it per FBI protocols, and packed it up for shipment. She joined Alton, the Gooch, Tuttle, and Fuentes back in the police station’s lobby.
“I know that face,” Mallory told Alton. “The wheels are turning. What is it?”
Alton rubbed his chin. “I’m prepared to accept the idea that Quintana was mixed up in some or all of the last week’s crimes. But that doesn’t mean he was the only one involved. We already suspected someone directed the actions of the three men who broke into Summit’s lab. Who’s to say there was only one coordinator? For a prize this big, there could have been several people involved.”
Mallory nodded. “That’s true.”
“I went online to read the paper,” said Alton. “I looked up Forsberg and Beauchamp, Chin and LeFlore’s pharma companies. The stock prices of both companies have risen over the past ten days, despite a decline in the overall market. It doesn’t prove anything, but it does suggest a possible motive.”
“What motive?” asked the Gooch.
“Investors reached the same conclusion we did,” said Alton, “that Summit’s disappearance reduces the odds her discovery cutting into the profits of either company. Maybe Chin or LeFlore hired Quintana to carry out their dirty work.”
“That could be,” said Mallory. “They’d be able to tell him exactly what to look for inside the lab, having been there.”
“I will ask Chin and LeFlore to meet with us again,” said Fuentes.
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Alton. “If one of them is guilty, they may try to cut a deal, especially if you meet with them individually and suggest Quintana has already started to talk. It’s great that we have our primary suspect, but we still don’t have Summit. This case isn’t over.”
“My word,” said Tuttle. “My head is starting to spin with all these theories. I don’t think I’m cut out for the detective line of work. Give me a good seasonal allergy any day.”
Alton drummed his fingers. “I feel a little confused, too, Dr. Tuttle. My gut tells me there are some questions about this case we haven’t answered yet. I just need to figure out which ones.”
CHAPTER 69
Given the late hour, Fuentes arranged to interview Chin and LeFlore in the morning. Their ongoing police tails ensured neither would miss their appointments.
Alton and Mallory left the police station in one of Fuentes’ Rav4 SUVs, bound for La Villa Descubrimiento, their resort. They drove without speaking for a few minutes, observing their decompression ritual after an intense day.
At first, they drove along the coast, enjoying the flicker of moonlight on dancing shoreline waters. As Alton turned onto the inland road leading to their resort, Mallory broke the ten-minute silence. “Do you have any new ideas about what’s happened to Summit?”
“No, not really,” said Alton, slowing to navigate an especially tricky curve. “I’m hoping our conversations with the pharma reps will turn up something.” He drummed his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. “You know, we should ask Fuentes to bring in Shoemaker. That guy has an agenda, too. Maybe not the same as Chin and LeFlore’s, but certainly one that could induce him to partner up with Quintana in pursuit of Summit’s research.”
“I’ll text Fuentes,” said Mallory, retrieving her cellphone from her purse. She finished the text and slipped her phone away.
“I wonder how much Cragmire figured out,” mused Alton.
“Poor guy. Who would’ve expected him to die here?”
“He must have been killed because he knew too much. That means the more we discover, the more we’re in the crosshairs ourselves.”
“This would have been a lot easier if he hadn’t gone off half-cocked and got himself shot,” said Mallory.
Alton started to agree, then froze. His mouth hung open, and he drove mechanically, his concentration held prisoner by a blinding epiphany. “Oh, God,” he whispered.
“What is it?” asked Mallory.
“I’ve been a fool…a grade A idiot.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve been thinking about this all wrong—the whole thing, start to finish.”
“You know who the killer is?” asked Mallory.
“I’m pretty sure,” replied Alton. “Give me a few minutes to confirm once we get back to our room. There are a few things I’ll need to check on my laptop. I want to be absolutely sure of my facts before I confront anyone.”
Once at the resort, Alton pushed the pace, limping along the dimly lit trail and scaling the spiral staircase to his room until his leg burned with pain. He swung open the door and made a beeline for the desk, powering up his laptop in a matter of seconds. His hands danced over the keyboard at a furious pace, bringing up page after page of information.
Several minutes later, Alton pushed himself back from the laptop and exhaled.
“So?” asked Mallory.
“I was right,” he said. “I just needed a little hard evidence to support the clues we already had.”
“Want to fill me in?”
“I’d be happy to,” said Alton. He faced his wife and tried to smile, but grim knowledge seemed to weigh him down. “Tomorrow’s meeting is going to be more interesting than we thought.”
CHAPTER 70
For once, Alton found an open space in the police station’s parking lot. He and Mallory made their way to the building, the smell of asphalt warming in the bright morning sun mingling with the pungent odor of raw fish.
They entered the station to find it more occupied than usual. The captain’s office had proved to be too small for the gathering crowd, so Rios and Torres were busy hoisting extra chairs into the lobby to form a rough circle of seats.
The seats were filling up fast. Occupying chairs on the left side of the circle were Chin, LeFlore, and Shoemaker. In the center, a handcuffed Quintana slouched between Sergeant Muro and another policeman. Along the right wall, Gooch, Tuttle, and Fuentes sat next to four empty chairs, presumably reserved for the lieutenants and the Blackwells.
“I thought Fuentes was going to question them one at a time in his office,” said Mallory, nodding to the left wall.
“I texted him last night and asked if he could set up a group talk instead. I also told him we discovered some important information in our case. In light of that, he asked me to lead this morning’s discussion—said he preferred a native English speaker to press the s
uspects for information.”
Mallory looked around the room. “I guess he figures you know what you’re doing.”
Alton grinned, then walked over to Fuentes. “I see you positioned us near the coffeepot. Good call.”
The captain chuckled. “This might be a long meeting. Maybe we’ll need strong coffee to get through it.”
Alton leaned in close. “It may not be as long as you think. You have your Glock, right?”
Fuentes’ expression hardened into one of utter focus. “Yes.”
“Good. Keep it handy. And make sure your men are ready.”
Fuentes produced the most imperceptible of nods.
“Before we get started, can I take a quick look at Cragmire’s cellphone?” asked Alton.
“Sure,” said Fuentes. He left down the hallway. Returning a minute later, he handed over the device.
Alton powered it up. His fingers flew over the screen, opening an application and studying its contents. After a minute, he shut off the phone and returned it to the captain.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Fuentes.
“Yep. It fits perfectly. I’ll explain in a few minutes.” Alton limped over to the Mr. Coffee and poured cups of joe for himself and Mallory. After handing a cup to Mallory, he lowered himself into a chair and assumed as casual a pose as he could muster. No point in tipping his hand to the murderer just yet.
While waiting, he sent a text message. “Ready?”
“Yes,” came the reply from Senator Jackson.
Alton texted another message to the Senator. “I’ll dial you in as agreed. Stay silent until I prompt you.”
His phone vibrated with a new message. “Agreed.”
As surreptitiously as possible, Alton dialed the Senator’s cellphone number and, once answered, set the phone on the table next to the coffeepot.
Rios and Torres finished their preparations and took their seats. Fuentes stood, cleared his throat, and directed his gaze to the suspects sitting across the circle of chairs. “I’d like to have your attention. I have a few more questions I’d like to ask you all about Jan Summit’s kidnapping and the string of five homicides in my islands over the last week.”
The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6) Page 26