by Randall Wood
• • •
With one mile to go, he heard the fire truck. Damn quick of them. He hoped the fire had done its job before they got to it.
• • •
When they got on scene, the paramedics automatically split up. The veteran didn’t even bother to check for a pulse—he knew a crime scene when he saw one—and turned to fetch a sheet from the truck. His partner couldn’t get the kid to speak. So she did what she always did and took his vital signs and checked for injuries. Acute Stress Disorder. Some called it Psychosomatic shock. Not much she could do for him. But what did he see?
• • •
He had left the car parked outside a gym. He climbed in and headed for his hotel in Altamonte Springs. His bags were packed, and the ticket was in the visor of the car. A quick shower and he was on his way down Interstate 4 to Tampa. Four hours until his flight left.
• • •
The crew made quick work of the fire. It had not spread and the lieutenant saw why: someone had taken the time to clear the area to prevent it. An even more curious thing was the rifle in the center of the fire. Even stranger then that was the big envelope, with the letters FBI and some guy’s name written on it, tacked to a nearby tree. The lieutenant left it all where it was and sent a crewman to get the chief.
• • •
What the hell was going on? Sanchez was not pleased. Two years ago he had landed the cake job of Chief in this rich suburb and he planned to stay forever. Nothing like this had ever happened in this part of Orlando—especially on a Saturday. He took his own picture of the envelope on the tree before putting on gloves and opening it. He found several newspaper articles and a typed letter addressed to the FBI. The sight drew a heavy sigh and he pulled out his cell phone.
• • •
As he drove past Disney World, he had the urge to pull out his own cell phone and call Paul. He felt good. They were started. The first job had gone off without a hitch. Then he remembered Timothy McVeigh. He put the cell phone away and slowed to the legal limit. Paul would know soon enough, and he still had a plane to catch.
• • •
Chief Sanchez marveled at the activity a cell phone could produce. On scene he now had all of his own officers, the coroner’s office, the county and state police, two or three TV crews, and a man from the local FBI office. When he had been hired, he had been smart enough to get to know his neighbors in the business, and they had built a mutual support agreement for just such a case as this. Today was going to be a long day.
• • •
He settled into a chair at the airport bar and ordered a large soft drink. His stomach couldn’t tolerate alcohol anymore. He could see his gate from his stool, but more importantly, he could see the TV mounted to the wall over the bar. The story was being told for the second time, but he couldn’t hear it. The bartender saw him watching.
“Some big-shot lawyer up in Orlando just got his head blown off. Can’t imagine who would want to do that!” The crowd at the bar laughed with her.
They called his flight. He drained his drink, smiled at the bartender, and left.
The state of Alaska holds 4,527 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 3,000 are repeat offenders.
—TWO—
Special Agent Jack Randall already felt the headache coming on. The call from his office had arrived about the same time as the story had aired on CNN. As he packed, his fax machine began cranking out page after page from the Hoover building. He looked at the first page as he brushed his teeth.
T. Carlton Addicot, huh? Not his favorite guy. Everyone he knew at the Bureau had heard of him. Jack recalled what he had read on the man: a big money tort lawyer, he liked to sue big companies for anything he could think of, claiming to do so on behalf of the victims. Never mind that he raked in more than all the victims combined. Word was that he had a partner in every state and flew around in his own Gulfstream jet, litigating. His specialty was medical companies. Last year he’d made sixty-two million on a case which involved a male impotency drug that supposedly gave its users heart attacks, often while in the act it was deemed for. No real evidence had been available to prove the drug did cause the attacks, but the company had chosen to settle and pay off the users and their lawyers in the face of greater losses. The drug had been quickly pulled from the shelves. The FBI had looked at T. Addicot three times for some shaky tax shelters and possible jury tampering. The man was guilty as hell, but they had been unable to pin anything on him. He also had friends within the bar who defended high profile criminals, and had often funded the case when the client’s assets were seized. All for a hefty fee, of course.
The phone rang. Spit. Wipe. He snatched it on the second ring. “Randall,” he spat into the receiver.
“Jack, it’s Deacon. You get the faxes I sent?”
“Yes, sir, the machines still spitting them out.”
Deputy Director Mark Deacon was Jack’s current boss, although they had worked together for a year and a half on the Russian Mafia killings in New York, and had become good friends, Jack would always call him “sir.” He had too much respect for the man.
“Sorry to ruin your weekend, but this one came addressed to us. Seems that our shooter left a note with your name on it. I told you fame had its drawbacks.”
He was right. The press had had a field-day following Jack during the trials. They had plastered his name and face on every rag on the east coast. His mother had sent him every newspaper clipping she came across. All it did was make him useless for undercover work.
“The letter is just coming through now, sir. What’s the game plan?” His wife had just entered the doorway and was listening with her disappointed look. It worked better on him than it did on the kids she taught.
“I want you, Larry, and Dave to fly down and take charge. I’m sending Sydney and her team with you. The press is running a story on it being a car-jacking gone wrong. This sounds fine for now; don’t make any statements unless the truth gets out. Tell the locals the rules; keep this in the dark. Mel in Orlando isn’t too impressed with the local boys, but he says their chief knows the game. Read up on this victim on the plane, and be ready to dig when you get there. From the letter, we have to assume this shooter has an agenda. I want to know how good he is and where you think he may go next. Take all the time you need and be thorough. Just give me reports when you have something new. There’s a plane waiting for you at Andrews. Get a line on this quick, Jack, and apologize to Debra for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied. He was still getting the look from his wife as he pushed the button to end the call. He now regretted using the speaker phone, but it allowed him to pack and talk at the same time. Debra had heard it all and was not pleased.
“Jack, you’ve only been home a week and now you’re leaving again? We have guests, you know. Can’t the damn FBI do without you for two weeks?”
He hated that tone, but he knew she had every right to complain. He had promised her some time together after the mafia trials, and here he was, running off not even halfway into their vacation.
“Honey, I’m sorry, but the Director calls and I go where he sends me. That’s the job. I have a team waiting for me at the airport. You’ll have to apologize to Mark and Kathy for me.” Jack knew this would only be the beginning.
“Does this team include Sydney?” Debra asked.
Jack winced. Having your ex-girlfriend as a colleague was not one of Debra’s favorite things about his job. It had caused some friction in the last year.
“Yes, it does, the Director is sending her and her team along with me. You know I have no control over that. It’s just work,” Jack confirmed. No use lying; she’d known the answer before she had asked the question.
“Fine. I’ll just go downstairs and tell our friends that you’re running off to Florida with your girlfriend to chase bad guys again, and won’t be able to join us tonight.” She left before he could reply.
Damn it. Why can’t she understand
? Jack thought. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I’ve had to do it faster than most due to my delayed start. I’m finally to the point that I’m happy with my job, and now she’s unhappy. It is always something. Sooner or later it will come to a serious talk, but right now I have to get going. Mark and Kathy were her friends anyway. Where the hell were his keys?
• • •
Sydney Lewis was in her drill sergeant mode, barking orders from a list in her head. Her people were jumping accordingly, but after seeing a couple of strange looks from them, she forced herself to stop. Her people knew their jobs; they didn’t need this. It was her first call from the Deputy Director himself, and her crew could tell it had spooked her a little. Sydney just needed to calm down and trust them to do their jobs. This was just another shooting; not like they hadn’t seen them before—especially their boss.
If there was one thing Sydney had seen in her career it was gunshot wounds. After six years as a paramedic, and three more with the FBI as a crime scene investigator, she had become an authority on the subject. She had even studied at the University of Tennessee’s three-acre cadaver farm. People who had donated their bodies to science all thought they’d be heading for medical school anatomy labs when they died. They didn’t know that they might end up on the farm with a few post-mortem gunshot wounds, only to be tossed in the woods and observed while they rot. But the university had been pivotal in the development of forensics. She had not only excelled, but had written several papers on the different ways bullets affected the body, and had developed new ways to determine time of death in relation to them. All but one of them had been published. This had caught the eye of the head of the FBI lab. A job had been offered upon graduation, and she had made her first marks when working on the Russian Mafia cases last year. She was considered a rising star by her peers, and had been given her own crime scene investigation team.
“Is Jack heading this case, Sydney?” one of her crew asked.
“Yes. Larry and Dave are coming, too. Why?”
“Just wondering.” The crewman smiled at her. It was no secret that she and Jack had a past, a point that her crew liked to bring up. They had been an item in college, but had went their separate ways upon graduation. Both of them were more serious about their late career changes than about each other.
“You people done packing yet?” Sydney gave them her mock serious look.
“Yes, ma’am!” They all grinned.
She grinned, too, and shook her head as she returned to her equipment. She needed new batteries for her flashlight again, and another box of gloves. Her team wore large gloves, but she had small hands. As she checked the items her thoughts turned to Jack.
Jack had lasted longer in the business world than she had thought he would. He was not the kind to sit at a desk and crunch numbers. She had seen that right away. But his family had been making money in investments for three generations now, and Jack was destined to take over. How his father had tolerated his stint in the army, without disowning him, was a miracle. He must have had seen the trait in his son, and had hoped the army would either work it out of him or change his mind. His father’s subsequent stroke had ended Jack’s army days prematurely, and Jack found himself both in school and in charge of the firm. The fact that he minored in criminology should have been a hint to his real goal. But Jack toed the line and married the daughter of a board member. This kept his family happy until his father’s death. Jack then announced his resignation from the chair, and intentions to join the FBI. Family friends had pulled some political strings and he had gotten a shot. From there, he had made it on his own. Cracking open the Russian Mafia on his second assignment had been a stroke of luck, and his actions on the case and the subsequent trials had marked him as a future star. He had eventually been assigned to Mark Deacon’s office.
Sydney caught herself smiling. Not bad for a guy she had met at a pistol range.
• • •
Jack pulled the Corvette into one of the Bureau slots at the airport. He had been thinking of Sydney on the drive in. He hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. Catching sight of her now, unloading a van in the hangar, brought a smile to his face. It occurred to him that she looked the same as she had in college. Tonight, she had on her typical khaki pants and blue Bureau shirt, badge and gun on her belt. Her long black hair was pulled back into her at-work ponytail. Jack knew somewhere in her immediate area was a clipboard with several lists on it. She was a notorious list maker. She had remarked once that she didn’t like making lists: she liked crossing things off them. It gave her a sense of detail that was hard to match, and had served her well, too. When he had met her, she’d had a loaded gun in her hand. Most people who were bad shots were often referred to as “couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.” Well, Syd, as he liked to call her, couldn’t hit the barn even if she were shooting from the inside. With the doors closed. With a shotgun. He remembered taking her under his wing to get her past her qualifying shoot at the end of class. Now she was, well, a fair shot, he allowed. Some people just never really developed the skill. The one-year romance that had resulted from that day was icing on the cake. They’d just had different futures at the time.
He had to admit: she had come a long way. Born on the lower end of middle class, her father was a factory worker and her mother a part-time waitress. She had decent grades until they divorced in her first year of high school. Her grades had suffered as her father was often laid off, and she was forced to work. Just after graduation she had been involved in a car accident, but thanks to a sharp paramedic, she was able to walk out of the hospital. When she had stopped by the station to thank the crew, she was intrigued by the job. Soon she was waitressing by day and attending the paramedic academy by night. One year later she was on the streets. She had a talent for it, but after a few years had found herself hanging out with the medical examiners at the crime scenes. Through them, she discovered that the dead can be just as interesting as the living. Her Medical Control Doctor had sponsored her in an accelerated program that led to her degree. She impressed the right people, and had wound up at the FBI, where a big case and some coincidence had led to her and Jack working together. They made an even stranger team than they had a couple: him, the rich boy who did the job because he hated his former life; and her, the smart, pretty, and poor girl who liked dead people.
He grabbed his bag out of the trunk and walked toward the hangar. This was going to be interesting.
• • •
The flight was uneventful. Sam was still getting used to first class. The large seats allowed him to recline almost flat, which helped to take the pressure off his abdomen. His carry-on bag held his laptop, a few toiletries, some clothes, and of course, his medications. His false papers had worked just fine, and with every use he was beginning to think that the price he had paid had been fair. He had a total of eight identities. Three used and five remaining, all expertly done by a gentleman in Toronto who had charged $2,500 per set. Each set came complete with a driver’s license, credit cards in both Visa and MasterCard, and U.S. and Canadian passports. They had also come with such things as store cards, gas cards, phone cards, even a couple library cards. The forger also had a lady friend who was skilled in makeup and hair. Sam smiled as he thought of the wigs they had tried. Quite an operation the couple had: one-stop shopping with no questions asked.
The hour layover was short and unavoidable. He watched a harried mother try to control her two toddlers as she waited for their father. She frowned at her checkbook in between calling the kids back into their seats. The kids’ bulky winter boots made them clumsy as they repeatedly wandered away from mom. One met his gaze and, after a short staring match, Sam smiled at the boy. He smiled back before running back to his mother.
The twenty-minute flight home on the commuter plane was likewise uneventful. No first class on this one. Sam slept until the wheels hit the ground. Short naps were a skill he had picked up in the army, especially on planes. Paul just nodded at the ga
te and led him out to the car. Once they were in and heading toward I-94, he turned and gave his brother-in-law a slight punch on the shoulder.
“Any problems?” Paul asked.
“Not a one; went off just like I planned it,” Sam replied. “EMS was quicker than I thought, but good for them. I saw one ambulance and one fire unit on the jog out, but the cops must have come in from the north.”
“The envelope?”
“Left it nailed to a tree upwind from the fire,” Sam said. “I’m sure they have it.”
The envelope was clean, as was the letter and the printed articles in it. Sam had bought the envelope at a Wal-Mart, and had pulled the one he’d used from the middle of the box using gloves. The articles had been printed on a library computer, and had also been handled accordingly. The highlights and circles, as well as the addressed name, had been done with markers from the same Wal-Mart. The lettering was in second-grade block letters. No, the envelope was clean.
“The press is saying it was a car-jacking gone bad,” Paul said. “How about that?”
Sam thought about this for a minute. This smelled like the FBI trying to keep this low-key as long as they could. The word would get out soon. The wife or the lawyer’s buddies would start making noise, or more likely a reporter would bribe somebody for information. Keeping it quiet was wishful at best. He voiced this to Paul, and they rode in silence for a few miles. He waited for the next question he always got.
“How’s the pain?”
“It’s there, but tolerable. The drugs the doc gave me are working as advertised. I guess that’s about all I can expect.” Sam didn’t want to go there right now. “So what’s next? Did you find that stuff I need?”
“Yeah,” Paul replied, “I made a run to Chicago last week and picked up almost all of it. Used up an ID, but it was worth it.”