The 13th Target

by Mark de Castrique

  Sidney didn’t need to invent anything. Something sinister had occurred right in front of him. He wondered why Mullins was interested in the president of a small bank, and why he would set up an appointment under a false name. Maybe he’d tried to protect the banker. Mullins was close to Luguire and his visit to Archer might have alarmed someone. If so, the plan failed. And Sidney recognized another possibility why Mullins wasn’t home. He could also be dead.

  If that were true, or if Mullins didn’t surface soon, Sidney had no other recourse in his pursuit of the truth about Paul Luguire’s death than to contact the one person officially assigned to the case—Detective Robert Sullivan. But telling Sullivan about Mullins’ link to Archer might blow any game Mullins was playing. If Mullins was alive to play any game at all.

  With that thought echoing in his mind, Sidney finally fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Kayli Woodson set the bowl of dry Cheerios on the floor in front of Josh and turned on The Cartoon Channel.

  “The terrible twos,” she said to herself. Truer words had never been spoken. Josh totally destroyed the banana she’d given him at the breakfast table, choosing to mash it between his fingers rather than eat it. Then he’d knocked over his cup of orange juice.

  She was in no mood to battle her son. He could go hungry, eat the cereal, or pulverize it into dust. She didn’t care. The vacuum cleaner could handle the mess better than she could handle his toddler attitude.

  Kayli returned to the kitchen and checked her cellphone again. No missed calls, no text message. It was nearly nine and she hadn’t heard from her father. Normally, when she first checked her phone there was “Good Morning Glory” on the screen or a short hello on voicemail for Josh.

  She dialed Mullins’ number. She heard no ring and her father’s voice answered immediately. “Can’t get your call. Leave a message.” His phone wasn’t silenced, it was off.

  She cleared the dishes from the table, unable to relax. She understood her father well enough to know Luguire’s death had set him off on a personal crusade. But she sensed there was more to it. Something else had gotten under his skin. The sudden trip to Florida and his vague explanation of falsified bank transactions indicated he pursued more than a simple investigation.

  And he was out there on his own, without backup or Treasury Department resources.

  Kayli wanted to share her concern with someone, even though her father had stressed keeping his movements a secret. She logged onto her Internet account and sent an email to her husband somewhere in the Indian Ocean. She didn’t want to wait till the evening. “Call when you can. Need to talk.”

  She kept the phone close by as first she dressed and then changed Josh out of his pajamas. They were going to the park with Sandy and Luke. If Allen called, she could slip away while Sandy watched the two boys.

  Sandy would understand.

  ***

  Mullins drove slowly past the house near the end of Palm Crescent Drive. The roof line matched what he’d observed on the Google Earth satellite photo, but the sign in the yard at 4908 didn’t say For Sale or promote some political candidate’s primary campaign. It read Foreclosure and gave the phone number of Goldlight Bank. Mullins wondered if there was a connection between Goldlight Bank and Laurel Bank.

  The yard appeared well maintained but not overly landscaped. The pale yellow stucco exterior so common in Florida neighborhoods showed little wear. Mullins circled around the cul-de-sac and then pulled the Prius into the empty driveway. He parked in front of the double-wide garage door. The solid sheet of white metal closed off any view of vehicles inside.

  He stepped out into the tropical heat and breathed cautiously. The humidity nearly choked him. He looked up and down the street. Everyone must either have been inside a protective cocoon of air conditioning or gone to work or to the nearby Sawgrass Mills Mall. He walked to the front door on a sun-bleached sidewalk bordered by white crushed stone. Drawn blinds covered the window for the living room or great room or whatever the hell real estate marketers now called the large front room of a home.

  Mullins peered through the slats and made out the shapes of furniture in the shadowed interior. The house wasn’t empty.

  He rang the bell. A minute later he rang it again.

  “No one’s home.” A woman stood in the yard on the other side of the driveway. She held a burning cigarette in one hand and a cane in the other. “You a bill collector?” Her voice had the tender tone of gravel sliding across a sheet of tin.

  Mullins wasn’t sure whether the old watchdog was a friend or foe to her neighbors. “Oh, no. I’m with an organization that tries to help people out of financial predicaments.”

  The woman took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re a little late for the Khoury family. I think they’ve skipped town.”

  Mullins pulled a folded photocopy of Fred Mack’s driver’s license from his pocket. He walked toward the woman. “Let me make sure I was sent to the right place. Is this Mr. Khoury?” He held the picture in front of her, keeping his thumb over the name Fred Mack.

  “Yes, that’s Fares. His wife is Zaina and they have a little girl named Jamila.”

  “The house still has furniture.”

  “I know. First week they were gone I went over every day and rang the bell. Since my Mort died, I spend most of my time playing red and black and staring out the front window. I never saw them leave.”

  “Red and black?”

  “Solitaire. Mort and I played gin rummy at the table.” She sighed. “Sometimes I look up from those cards and expect to see him sitting across from me. Keeps me from cheating.”

  Mullins stuck the photo back in his pocket. “How long have they been gone?”

  “Three weeks. Maybe a little longer. They didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “What was Mr. Khoury’s job?”

  She took another puff and a long chunk of ash dropped to the ground. She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t know?”

  “That’s why I’m here. To fill in the details and see if he’s eligible for government aid.”

  “Fares worked as a landscape designer. He didn’t have his own company or anything like that. I don’t think he was a licensed landscape architect or whatever they call the top guy. He got laid off when the economy crashed and nobody was building new neighborhoods. That happened at the same time their mortgage payment ballooned.”

  “He told you this? You must have been pretty close.”

  “Zaina would invite me over for coffee, especially after I lost Mort. One afternoon she just started sobbing. Like to break my heart.”

  “They were losing the house?”

  “She said they tried to work out something with the bank. Renegotiate. But nobody would help. That’s the way it is, I guess. You’re in the red or you’re in the black. Money trumps everything.”

  “And they all left together?”

  She shook her head. “Fares was gone first. Zaina said he was preparing an appeal that took him out of town. One last chance. Then a couple days later, she and the little girl were gone. I guess it didn’t work. But they never said goodbye. Hell, I would have taken them in.” She dropped the cigarette and snubbed it out with a fuzzy slipper. “An old Jewish widow taking in a Arab family. Well, they’re people too. They have to have a place to live.”

  “Was Mr. Khoury angry about what had happened?”

  “He never talked to me about it. But I would be, wouldn’t you? Get into a house with a low interest loan and promises of roll-over financing only to have the rug pulled out from under you.” She lifted the cane and swatted some invisible enemy. “I’d be mad as hell.”

  “Any idea where they’ve gone?”

  “No. Just up and left.”

  “And they were Arabs?”

  “L
ebanese. Not the crazies. I thought they might be Christian since I know a lot of Lebanon is Christian, but they were Muslim. And they were nice. Fares would pick up Mort’s heart medicine when he went for his insulin.”

  Mullins’ ears perked up. “Was Mr. Khoury diabetic?”

  “Yeah. The bad kind. He had to take the shots. And he always carried orange juice or a candy bar with him.” She looked at the Foreclosure sign. “I wonder how he’s paying for his medicine. It’s a shame, I tell you. Greedy bastards on Wall Street making millions while the family next door is destroyed.”

  Mullins nodded sympathetically. “I know. Makes you want to take things into your own hands.”

  “It does. Enough people lose their homes and this country will be in the middle of a revolution. Look at that Occupy Wall Street.”

  Mullins stuck out his hand. “I’m Harry Lockaby. Sorry to start talking without introducing myself.”

  The woman wrapped her nicotine-stained fingers lightly around his palm. “Judy Bernstein. If you talk to them, tell them I asked about them. And I’m watching the house.”

  “I will, Mrs. Bernstein. Can you tell me the name of the pharmacy where Mr. Khoury picked up your husband’s medicine?”

  Her eyes brightened. “That’s smart. Fares may still come in for his insulin.”

  “Good thinking. I bet you’re a hell of a card player.”

  The old woman beamed. “Got time for a hand of gin rummy? Penny a point.”

  “Maybe some other time when I’ve got more money. I have a feeling you’ll clean me out.”

  “You do that. There’s always an open chair at the table,” she said wistfully. Then she added, “The CVS near Sawgrass Mills.”

  Mullins followed Judy Bernstein’s directions to the pharmacy a few miles away. He stood in the pick-up line and waited his turn. Fortunately, the store marked a respectable distance between the customer being served and the next patron to insure some degree of medical privacy. A pharmacist wearing the name tag Harvey motioned him forward.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m getting the prescription for Fares Khoury.”

  Harvey looked surprised. “Mr. Khoury’s back? No one phoned in an order.”

  “His insulin, right?”

  “Yes. But we transferred the account to Staunton, Virginia.”

  Mullins scratched his head. “Gosh, I don’t know what to say. I spoke to Fares last week and he expected to be home from his assignment tonight. I was going to drop it by the house.”

  “I’ll check. Maybe we missed a fax.” He entered data on a keyboard.

  Mullins racked his brain for any knowledge about Staunton. “Was it the pharmacy near Mary Baldwin College?”

  “I don’t know Staunton that well, but this was the one on West Beverly.” Harvey turned from the screen. “I don’t have any record of a request.”

  “Well, I guess I misunderstood. I’ll see if I can reach Fares and get it straightened out.”

  “That would be best,” Harvey agreed. “Either Mr. Khoury or his doctor will need to authorize any change.”

  Mullins stood by his Prius in the parking lot. The sun beat down like a fiery torch. Eleven o’clock. He’d been in Sunrise less than an hour and faced another day in the car. Staunton was even farther than Roanoke. Well, he’d drive as far as he could, grab a few hours sleep at a motel, and be at the CVS on West Beverly when it opened.

  Fares Khoury or Fred Mack or whatever name he now used had left a trail of insulin that Mullins wasn’t about to lose.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Amanda Church wanted to skip work. With Rusty Mullins in the field and out of communication, she needed to be able to react at a moment’s notice to any new development.

  But the security department at the Federal Reserve stood on high alert. The previous day Amanda sat through a review of all protection measures being taken to safeguard the governors of the Federal Reserve Board as well as key officers. Although no evidence surfaced suggesting Paul Luguire’s death was anything but a suicide, the tragedy generated anxious assessments of the vulnerability of the central bank’s leaders.

  Now the Tuesday morning session bogged down into details of budget and the practicality of twenty-four-hour surveillance. No one mentioned a murder in Roanoke, Virginia. That wouldn’t happen till someone connected a Russell Mullins who saw Craig Archer with the Russell Mullins who was the last person to see Paul Luguire alive.

  Every time someone entered the conference room, Amanda expected the announcement that Russell Mullins was tied to the homicide of a bank president.

  When they finally took a break at eleven, she called her husband Curtis Jordan in Paris. After Mullins went underground the night before, she’d told Curtis everything. Too much was at stake to keep developments just between Mullins and her. Curtis’ skills as a thriller writer meant he had the knack for determining patterns of action and how they might play out. She needed reassurance as Mullins’ silence heightened her anxiety.

  “Amanda, Mullins’ name may come out.” The sound of traffic rumbled underneath his voice. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

  “But we’re not ready to have our suspicions out in public.” She whispered her concern over the secure line at her desk. “Mullins is making progress.”

  “You’ve got a reasonable explanation and the evidence to back it up. You told Mullins his name had surfaced on an unusual transaction and he went to check it out. Keep it personal for him. He’ll have to provide his own alibi, and I’m sure he’ll have one—either gas or hotel receipts.”

  Her husband’s comforting words eased her fear. “Okay. I’m good with that. But I don’t like being out of touch with him.”

  “Mullins is a smart guy. He’ll get to you sooner rather than later. Remember, you’re the only link he has to the Federal Reserve. Remind him you need each other to connect the dots and form a more complete picture.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right, Curtis. I’m just edgy. I’ll feel better when you’re back.”

  “Me too. But I need to stay in Paris till I finish this story.”

  “I know. You can’t disappoint your fans.”

  He laughed. “You mean I can’t disappoint the people who’ll give me the big advance. That’s why they call it a deadline.”

  “I’ll call tonight,” she promised.

  “Okay. But don’t assume your cell and the home line are secure. Anything critical you have to share needs to be communicated another way.”

  “Curtis. Hello. You’re talking to an ex-Secret Service agent.”

  “And you’re doing a great job. The right people will know it even if the public never does. That, my dear, is the secret part of Secret Service.” With another laugh, he hung up.

  Amanda laid the receiver back on the cradle. She checked her watch. The security meeting would begin in ten minutes. Her conversation with her husband uncovered some pitfalls in her planning. She and Mullins should have anticipated that he might have to go off the grid and ditch his cellphone. There was a good chance she’d have to follow suit, especially if Mullins got tied into the murder of Craig Archer.

  The phone on her desk rang. She snatched the receiver, thinking that her husband had forgotten to give her some instruction.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me.”

  She recognized Mullins’ voice.

  “I’m on a pre-paid. Can we talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried your line a few minutes ago and it was busy. I figured you were in your office.”

  “The place has been nuts since Luguire died. But I’ve got eight minutes before the next meeting.”

  “Good. Here’s what’s happened and here’s what I need you to do.”

  ***

  Sidney Levine s
lipped the keys to the Audi under the driver’s floor mat and closed the door. He found his keys under the seat of his Escort where Colleen left them. She was still stuck in edit hell and claimed to have no time to exchange keys in person. Just as well, Sidney thought. Less chance for her to question where he’d been. He’d filled her gas tank and run the Audi through a car wash. That would be enough to keep him in her good graces.

  Thirty minutes later, he drove his car past Mullins’ apartment building. The Prius still wasn’t in the lot and Sidney had no clue as to where Mullins could be. He knew only one man who might have the answer. Detective Robert Sullivan.

  But contacting Sullivan posed a risk. Sidney didn’t want to admit he trailed Mullins or suspected the ex-Secret Service agent used a false name while meeting a man who was murdered the same day.

  He needed a plausible story. When in doubt, tell the truth—selectively. He whipped the Ford Escort in a U-turn and headed for the Arlington Police Department.

  ***

  The fax was on Sullivan’s desk when he arrived Tuesday afternoon. Per his request, the M. E. took a second look at the shaving nick under Luguire’s jaw. He noted that the aluminum sulfate consistent with the ingredients in a styptic pencil had closed the wound but not masked its depth. The new analysis revealed a shallow puncture from a pin or needle.

  An odd place for an injection, Sullivan thought. He wondered if Luguire had worn a new shirt the day he died. Once, Sullivan had forgotten to remove all the pins from the packaging and jabbed himself in the neck.

  In light of the discovery, the M. E. re-ran the blood work with more exhaustive tests. Nothing unusual appeared other than a slightly elevated reading for norketamine, a chemical not particularly dangerous in itself, except it’s the breakdown product of ketamine, a pain killer that works by creating the sensation of separating the mind from the body—a kind of euphoria accompanied by physical numbness and loss of mobility.