Today was Wednesday, and the last place he wanted to be was here, defending himself and his team. Not only was he worried about Julie and her John Doe, but the third plague could happen at any time, depending on when the Prophet had started his five-day count. Keith had called to say that Julie’s note had been found in the trash inside an empty Chinese food carton. Hopefully, Lenore and not the killer had put it there.
He huffed out a frustrated breath. What he should be doing instead of cooling his heels here was trying to figure out where the bastard would strike next. Campus security had been increased since the mayor and the city’s think tank had decided the Prophet was targeting college girls—women who didn’t know their place in the Prophet’s order of things—but Trevor thought they might be oversimplifying the problem. The Prophet’s message had said “children.”
Thank God Lilith and the rest of the task force would be back in Boston by Monday.
After speaking to Lilith, Trevor had spent an hour on the Internet researching gnats, pesky little flies whose bites were painful. Since gnats were more of an annoyance than disease- spreading insects, how would the Prophet use them to make his point? There’d be deaths in plague three, but how many and from what? Would he use the nerve agent again? Maybe in a gaseous form, resembling a cloud of insects? He hadn’t used the frogs to kill, but … They hadn’t been able to track down the supplier yet. Considering only so many places sold pickled frogs, how hard could it be?
The taxi pulled up in front of White Iris Petroleum’s corporate headquarters. Trevor handed the cabbie the fare and a tip before exiting the car and breathing in the cold, fresh air. While his cab had smelled better than a lot of them, the underlying aroma of stale body odor tinged with vomit and fresh pine air freshener hadn’t been pleasant.
He walked through the slush and stepped onto the sidewalk. Someone had shoveled in front of the glass and steel monstrosity. Like the rest of the East Coast, the nation’s capital was digging out from under the unexpected fall storm, but they seemed to have gotten about half as much snow as Boston had.
Figures. Make my life hell and cut everyone else some slack. Thanks, Mother Nature.
Resigned to his fate, Trevor examined the large, ten-story building facing the Potomac. How much had this vanity piece cost?
L.D. Hamilton was the sole owner and CEO of White Iris Petroleum, one of the country’s largest oil producers, with wells, refineries, and pipelines in Oklahoma, Texas, the Gulf of Mexico, and Alaska. Rumor had it he’d also sunk money into and bought shares of oil wells and refineries in Kuwait and other so-called friendly oil-rich nations. He had a fleet of tankers to move his product around the globe, and given the current price of oil, with winter coming on, he’d be making more money than he could count.
When he wasn’t getting filthy rich off of petroleum and its byproducts, L.D. ran White Iris Pharmaceuticals, a drug company that produced cancer medications and sold them for a lower price than its rivals. Between the two companies, they funded the White Iris Foundation, a charity designed to improve life for all Americans. Among the various outreach programs it supported was a cancer research and rehabilitation center in Nevada. In addition, Hamilton had a team of environmental engineers devoted to finding alternative sources of energy.
Most people saw the millionaire as an altruistic philanthropist, but to Trevor, he was just another opportunist who happened to be at the right place at the right time. If and when the United States ran out of oil, he’d have the next best thing available, too. He had solar farms, wind farms, and God knew what else. Apparently, he was involved in funding research into geothermal energy in Alaska, as well as trying to harness the power of ocean tides. The man had his fingers in more pies than Trevor could count.
While everything he did seemed aboveboard, something about the man and the way he preached whenever he got the chance bothered Trevor. This would be their first face-to-face meeting—not because Trevor hadn’t wanted one, but because L.D. had blown him off more times than he could count. Now Trevor was supposed to just drop everything at the royal command to appear. He sneered and shook his head.
Let’s get this over with.
Chapter Twelve
Opening the massive glass and brass doors, Trevor stepped into the foyer of Hamilton Towers and walked over to the security booth. He took out his credentials, showed them to the man on duty, but refused to surrender his gun. After a call upstairs, the guard relinquished his position on the matter and let Trevor pass.
“Special Agent Clark?” A young man in a suit that probably cost as much as the monthly rent on Trevor’s apartment, stopped him.
“Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Hamilton.”
“I know. I’m Tony Hamilton. My father’s waiting for you upstairs. If you’ll come this way.”
Trevor nodded and followed the young man to a restricted elevator. The panel had only one button, marked P, and he’d bet it didn’t stand for Parking. The elevator doors slid closed, encasing them in a brass car that rose quickly, so fast in fact that Trevor’s ears popped. The doors slid open without a sound.
“This is the executive level,” Tony said, leading the way down the hall.
The floor was covered in a thick, sand-colored Berber carpet that absorbed his footsteps. There wasn’t a sound—no phones ringing, no keyboard strokes, no hushed conversations—reminding Trevor of a hospital at night, a church when no one was around, or an empty funeral parlor. The walls were painted some designer color that looked to him like a violet-beige, which was probably supposed to be soothing but just made him uncomfortable.
Paintings of the company’s founders lined the walls. Among them was a portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired woman with blue-green eyes, dressed in white. There was something vaguely familiar about her. The name underneath was Iris Hamilton. Tony must’ve noticed the way he looked at the picture.
“My grandmother, the original White Iris. The company’s named after her. My father’s office is this way. The boardroom and Dad’s private apartment are on this level, too.”
“Your father lives here?”
“Not on a regular basis,” Tony said and chuckled. “But he does hold the occasional business lunch here, and if there’s a crisis, he prefers to be close to the president. In bad weather, he’ll stay here as well. He did last night.”
“What’s your job here?” Trevor asked.
“I don’t work here, Agent Clark. I’m a law student articling with Grafton, Lewis, and Smythe. My grandfather founded the firm that handles the White Iris Foundation’s legal matters. Nothing wrong with a little nepotism if you can get it. Since I was visiting Dad when security called up, I offered to go down and meet you. No one comes up to this floor unescorted.”
Of course not. This is the inner sanctum, the holy of holies. Where have I heard that term before?
“I’m sure that work keeps you busy,” Trevor said. “I was reading about the foundation the other day. It’s got its fingers in a lot of pies.”
Tony laughed. “It does. Dad’s convinced it’s his job to singlehandedly save the planet.” He stopped in front of a pair of large oak doors. An iris had been carved into the wood, half of it on each of the two panels. He knocked, and pushed open the doors.
“Would you like tea or coffee?” he asked before entering.
“Coffee, black, thanks.”
“Dad,” he said, addressing the bald man sitting behind what had to be the most imposing desk Trevor had ever seen. “Agent Clark’s here. I’ll have Ms. Simms bring you both coffee. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Thanks, Tony. Remind your mother that I’ll be late.” L.D. stood, walked around his desk, and held out his hand. “Lawrence Donald Hamilton, at your service. My friends call me L.D. Thank you so much for coming in, Agent Clark. I know you’re a busy man, and today’s probably the worst day to drag you out of Boston, but the president has questions best asked and answered face-to-face.”
“Is the president joining us?” Trevo
r asked, not sure whether that was good news or not.
“He wanted to, but at the last minute, something came up, so I’m afraid you’ll simply have to answer to me.”
As if I have any choice.
“I hope you had a pleasant flight. This weather was a surprise to all of us.”
Trevor relaxed and reached for the man’s hand, noting the large signet ring he wore—a white mother-of-pearl iris on a black onyx background.
“I’ve been told it’ll be gone by the weekend. Since I’m not a fan of the cold, it works for me.”
L.D. smiled knowingly. “Yes, not everyone appreciates winter.”
Trevor studied his host. L.D. wasn’t a large man, but he had presence. At six feet tall, he was lean and yet well-muscled, but instead of looking like an executive, he reminded Trevor of a tiger, ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. Rumor had it he was ruthless in business. Trevor wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. The man’s custom-made suit probably cost five grand, and the black-and-red-striped tie he wore over the snowy white shirt had to be pure silk. He was bald, his head almost as shiny as the Italian leather shoes he wore. Most of his face was shaven, except for the goatee, and he wore dark-tinted glasses. Trevor had read somewhere that the man suffered from some kind of light-induced migraines.
Examining his face, Trevor couldn’t quite figure out why the facial recognition program had tagged him. He didn’t resemble the dark-haired, dark-skinned man in the photograph Jacob had identified as his uncle. His skin was pale, as if it had been bleached. Had this guy ever been out in the sun? Probably not, no doubt because of whatever disease he had. This was another of the many glitches and snafus in this case, and the questioning last week was something else he needed to apologize for.
“Shall we sit over here?” L.D. indicated a leather sofa with a couple of club chairs separated by a low glass and brass coffee table.
“I want to apologize for that mix-up last week,” Trevor started.
“Forget it,” L.D. said, smiling patronizingly. “Computers make mistakes all the time. That’s why men and not machines run the country.”
The door opened and a Hispanic woman came in carrying a silver coffee set, which she placed on the low table. After filling two enameled porcelain cups with the dark brew, she left the room.
“How do you take your coffee, Agent Clark?”
“Black, please.”
“Here you go. This is my own special blend. I hope you like it.”
Trevor reached for the mug and took a sip.
“It’s very good. Thank you.”
L.D. sipped his coffee in silence, and Trevor began to feel like a kid brought before the principal. After a while, his nerves kicked in. Staying still was impossible. Time to get this show on the road. The sooner he answered the man’s questions, the sooner he could get back to work.
Setting down the mug, the white iris design on it facing him, Trevor smiled and turned to his host. “You said the president has questions he wanted answered?” he asked.
L.D. pursed his lips. “He does, and so do I. I thought we’d get to know one another first, but I can understand why you’re eager to begin. It can’t be difficult trying to solve what appears to myself and others as unsolvable crimes.”
“The crimes may be complex, but they aren’t unsolvable. Sooner or later, he or one of his henchmen will make a mistake, and when they do, we’ll get him.”
“I admire your faith in the system. Very well. Let’s start with the task force you’ve assembled. Explain how you had a traitor front and center on it. When you finish that, you can tell me why you added a foreigner, a man licensed to carry a gun in this country who isn’t even an American citizen, and replaced Pierce, was it? with a former field agent who failed to meet her objective in what was her only field mission. I understand Senator Kirk’s granddaughter is still missing.”
Trevor’s gut—and it wasn’t his ulcer—urged caution. The safety of his team came first, and he had no intention of revealing Jacob’s true identity to this man or anyone else. As for Lilith, whoever provided him with information had dug deeply. If Hamilton knew this much, it would soon be public knowledge. If there was one thing Washington couldn’t do, it was keep secrets.
“It isn’t quite as simple as you make it seem. As far as Garett Pierce was concerned, he was a deep-cover mole who had a lot of people fooled. For years, he was considered one of the Bureau’s best men. In fact, had he not screwed up on this case, he was touted to be the next director. No one had any reason to suspect he wasn’t exactly what he claimed to be, and since we now know, imagine the damage he could’ve done had his duplicity not been revealed. Since the case began as a Boston PD matter, Pierce was on it as liaison before I was brought in officially when the third body was found on government property. The director opted to make it a joint FBI-BPD case, and detectives Rob Halliday and Tom Adams were seconded to the task force. Detective Halliday’s wife was one of James Colchester’s victims.”
“And, of course, neither you nor the director thought that made his involvement on the task force a conflict of interest.”
Trevor didn’t like the man’s insinuation. Rob was a vital member of the team.
“Detective Halliday conducted himself with the utmost professionalism. He and Faye had been engaged, and when he realized the connection between the various cases was Faye, he arranged to protect her.”
“Protect her?” L.D. asked and sneered. “From what I read, it sounds more like they shacked up together in Lake Placid.”
Trevor counted to five, holding in his anger.
“Don’t believe everything you read. As I said, this case is complicated.”
“I see. Well, either way, since Mr. Colchester took her right under Halliday’s nose, he didn’t do a good job. I heard the woman was pregnant. Must be a blow to know another man sired your wife’s child.”
“As I said, you don’t have all the information, sir. Faye Halliday’s baby is her husband’s, and they have the paternity tests to prove it.”
Trevor watched the muscle jump in the man’s jaw.
So, he doesn’t like being corrected. Score one point for me.
L.D. refilled his coffee mug, stood, and walked over to the bank of slightly tinted windows overlooking the river. With his free hand, he rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he had one of his headaches, but if he did, why stand by the window? Even with his shaded glasses, the sun’s glare off the snow was blinding.
“Please offer the happy couple my felicitations,” L.D. said glibly, turning around, a smile on his face. “That’s excellent news for the newlyweds. Now, what about this Interpol agent you’ve brought on board? Is he really necessary? We have plenty of trained men here in the United States, and this administration can ill afford to waste resources and money—”
“Jacob Andrews is an expert on cults,” Trevor interrupted and noted the way L.D.’s empty fist clenched. Whoever had fed the man the partially correct information would no doubt be looking for a new job before the day was out. “We aren’t paying him. He’s working with us, following up on a lead for his own country.”
“I see,” L.D. said, nodding, but he couldn’t hide his annoyance at being bested once more. “This administration is always happy to help out its allies. British, is he?”
“Yes,” Trevor answered. There was no way he’d chance compromising Jacob, the settlers, the women, or the children. Besides, Australia had ties to Britain, so it was only a white lie.
“Acceptable, then, but what about this woman? From what I can see, her career is made up of one failure after another.”
“I don’t know who’s providing you with information, sir, but once again, you don’t have all of it. Lilith’s field assignment was classified and not the failure you seem to think it was. Thanks to her, we stopped a drug trafficking ring for the Mexican cartel and took down one of the cult leaders, stopping him from ruining any more lives. While it’s true the man in charge got away with three you
ng girls, including the senator’s granddaughter, Lilith was almost killed. She’s an invaluable member of my team. Like Jacob, she has expertise with cults, and she’s a computer research expert and behavioral analyst.”
“If she was so seriously injured, why continue to do this?”
“Why does a wounded soldier go back into battle? If everyone who faced adversity quit, where would we be? Lilith has a strong personal reason for continuing to work with the FBI. Her older sister was involved with a cult and committed suicide about fifteen years ago. Lilith wants to make sure no other innocent falls into a madman’s hands. She’s also dedicated herself to finding her niece, who disappeared at the time.”
“Disappeared how? Was she kidnapped?”
Trevor noted the interest in his voice. Maybe the man was ready to cut them all some slack, and a little latitude from the White House could be a big help.
“Not exactly. Apparently, Rose was left with the Templars of Mary, an orphanage in Nevada that your foundation turned into a research and rehabilitation center about twelve years ago. We’re looking for the adoption records to see if we can find her. You wouldn’t happen to know about any paperwork left there when you took over, would you?”
He smiled. “Not me personally, but our lawyers might. I’ll mention it to Tony at dinner. He can institute a search of whatever documents might’ve been left behind. How old would this child have been?”
“She was six months old when her mother died. I don’t know how long the sisters would have had her before finding suitable parents. She’d be fifteen now.”
“Very well. I’ll give him the information. If he finds anything, I’ll have him call. Now, how did your agent manage to get herself kidnapped?”
“As a team member, Pierce was privy to everything we knew. He was a resourceful man. Knowing the original team members as he did, we believe he saw Lilith as the weakest link, but she wasn’t. Her knowledge had given us insight into both Pierce and the Prophet.”
The White Iris Page 16