Will studied the photo. Allowing for passing time, it was a younger version of Evans.
There was something going on that was most likely bigger than Nick let on. Or maybe bigger than Nick knew.
“What else?” he said.
“More weirdness. This guy, Hunter, has a platinum Visa card with a credit limit of $100,000. Can you believe that? And a MasterCard with the same limit. And he’s some kind of a high-roller or something because the bills are paid by a holding company, called” ‒ Jack glanced down at the paper he held ‒ “Intertel Unlimited.”
A shock of recognition shot through Will. “Holy shit.”
Intertel Unlimited was CIA. He’d stumbled on it when he’d worked for NSA. As an analyst at NSA a file of memos had come across his desk whose language had triggered terrorist warnings. He’d ferreted out the intel on them. It had turned out to be Intertel, a seemingly legitimate foreign aid group funded by the CIA whose covert purpose was helping high level assets defect. The two men locked in his interrogation room were either CIA or private contractors for them.
“Will, what’ve we got here?” Jack’s voice was quiet and measured.
A tiger by the tail, Will thought. “Not sure. Nothing good, I think.”
“Drugs?”
“Couldn’t say yet. But don’t take any chances. Don’t even open the door. They can use the toilet in there. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be the walking dead tomorrow.” Will had to be sharp for what was coming.
“Yep,” Jack said. “I got no place else to be. I’ll call in a few extra day guys.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
After Jack left, Will laid back on the couch and pulled his cell from his front shirt pocket. Dead. He set it on his desk, picked up the land line receiver and dialed from memory.
A sleepy voice answered after the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Hal McNabb,” Will said, “Will Stevens here, Sheriff down in Delta County. Remember me?”
“Yeah, I remember you. Why in the hell are you calling me at … in the middle of the night? I have office hours, you know.”
Will ignored the sarcasm. “Sorry, but I’ve got a situation that’s a little bit out of my expertise. Remember that favor you owe me? I need to call it in. Big time.”
***
The clock in the silent interrogation room ticked off 6:30 a.m. Hunter had not slept. He rose from his chair.
“You ready?” he said.
Charlie slumped in the chair, chin down on his chest, snoring softly. Hunter waited a beat, and, when the other man did not move, he kicked Charlie’s leg, hard. The man’s head jerked up and back, clunking against the wall. Hunter felt no sympathy for him. Charlie was a liability. It was time for action.
Awkward with his wrists cuffed, Charlie reached up and rubbed the back of his head. He muttered something unintelligible.
“Wake up, dammit,” Hunter said.
Charlie rose, stretching, and took a few steps toward the door. Hunter maneuvered around his partner so the man’s back was to the one-way mirror.
“I got it,” Charlie said. “I fake a stomachache, and you ‒”
“Keep your voice down.” Hunter pointed to the tiny red light on the camera mounted high up in one corner.
Charlie held up one finger. “I fake sick,” he said, his voice so soft Hunter barely heard him. Charlie held up two fingers. “You call for help.” He held up three fingers. “And you jump whoever comes in first. Then we grab a car and get the hell outta here.”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t see why we don’t just wait. That hick sheriff’s got nothing on us. We can sue his ass. As soon as they talk to that liquor store owner, we’re outta here.”
Hunter glared at him. “We don’t have that kind of time. Are you ready or not?”
Charlie shrugged. “Whenever you are.”
In the ensuing silence, Hunter listened. He heard the faint whisper of the air conditioning. No voices, no sounds from outside the room. He had chosen this time, hoping it was before shift change, and there was only the incompetent deputy between him and freedom.
“Now?” Charlie said.
Hunter nodded. Charlie bent over and began moaning, a pitiful, almost feminine sound that rose in volume.
Hunter pounded on the door. “Hey, Deputy,” he yelled. “You need to come in here. There’s something wrong with my friend.” He heard footsteps outside the door. He pounded again. “Hey, can you hear me?”
“What the hell’s going on in there?” The deputy’s voice from the other side of the door sounded sleepy.
“It’s my friend,” Hunter said. “He’s sick.”
“Well, I hope he recovers,” the deputy said. “I got orders not to open the door.”
Charlie groaned again and clutched his stomach.
“You ought to come,” Hunter said. “I think he’s really sick. Maybe he got food poisoning from that fish he ate yesterday.”
“Talk to him,” the deputy said. ”Find out what’s wrong.”
Hunter imagined the deputy listening on the other side of the door.
Hunter moved soundlessly behind Charlie. He slipped his cuffed hands over Charlie’s neck and covered his mouth, muffling his startled exclamation. Charlie’s muscles tensed, anticipating what would happen, but before he could move, Hunter twisted the man’s neck sharply. There was an audible cracking sound, and Charlie sagged. Hunter held him while Charlie’s last breath sighed out, one long exhalation. He let the body slide to the floor. Hunter was disappointed he hadn’t seen the man’s eyes. He consoled himself by vowing he would look in the Mallory woman’s eyes when the time came.
Hunter wiped his hands on his thighs. “Deputy. My friend is down, and I don’t feel so good. You should call an ambulance.”
Hunter heard a heavy tread go into the room next door. He assumed the man was looking at them from the other side of the mirror.
Hunter staggered across the floor, moaned and collapsed against the table. He gagged, as though he would vomit and then slumped over onto the table.
There was a shuffling movement outside the door, and the deadbolt turned. Through slitted eyes, Hunter saw the door open slowly. The deputy stuck his head in and peered into the room.
“Shit,” he said and went to Charlie. He reached down and checked for a pulse. Didn’t take his eyes off Hunter. Rose slowly. Stepped away from Charlie’s body.
Hunter clutched his stomach and moaned. The deputy bent toward him, started to back away, perhaps realizing his mistake. Hunter sprang. He grabbed the deputy’s arm, wrenching it to the side. In one quick motion, Hunter flipped the man across his body. There was a crack as the deputy’s head hit the edge of the table, and he slumped to the floor and lay motionless.
Hunter looked disdainfully at the two bodies and moved to the door. No sound from the hall. That meant nobody was observing through the one-way mirror. He looked out, first one way, then the other. This town of Nowheresville had incompetent help. The corners of Hunter’s mouth curled up. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had underestimated him.
He turned back to the cop. The handcuff key was in the first place Hunter looked: the man’s shirt pocket. Hands free, Hunter stepped into the hall.
Hunter needed a weapon. He glanced toward the front of the building. Empty, but it wouldn’t be long until the day people arrived. Hunter walked cat-like on sneakered feet to the lobby.
Behind the counter on the desk, beside a set of car keys, lay his knife and sheath in an evidence bag, two cell phones, Charlie’s gun and their wallets and watches. A trap? He sensed no movement except the cool air pushed by the air conditioning. It was going to be another warm day. He slipped his Rolex onto his wrist and clasped it. He ripped his knife from the bag and clipped it to his belt, scooped up his cell phone and pocketed it. He hesitated over Charlie’s gun. He didn’t like guns. No, the knife was all he needed.
Hunter slipped out the front door. The street was deserted. Even the tavern sign down the way was
dark. He glanced at his Rolex. Time. He was running out of time. A late model Dodge pickup was parked at the curb.
Of course the old cop would drive a pickup, he thought. He probably used it to haul his deer kill home every autumn. Even if the door was open, new cars were almost impossible to start without a key. Hunter tried the pickup’s door. It opened, and the key was in the ignition. Dumb cop, he thought. And then he thought how great small towns were where folks trusted each other.
Hunter started the pickup. As he eased into the street another car driven by a woman pulled into his vacated space. She stared at him. He ducked his head and headed out of town.
Alyssa Mallory would pay. Hunter would collect the rest of his fee – including Charlie’s share – and disappear with enough money to live like a sultan for the rest of his life in some South American paradise.
First, Nick Trammel, or, as Hunter knew him from a previous encounter, Travis Nickels, would get what he deserved.
Chapter 18
Will Stevens awoke on the couch in his office, groggy and stiff. He sat up and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. In the darkness, he felt around on his desk and grabbed his phone. Dead. He’d been so tired he’d forgotten to plug it in.
He made his way to the door by memory in the darkness, reflecting on last night. At first FBI Agent McNabb had balked at the enormity of the favor Will requested. It meant waking people in Washington all the way to the Assistant Director’s level. Will had to know who Evans and Hunter were, why an ex-con named Charles Stitt had become Charles B. Evans, and their connection to the CIA or NSA or whichever agency they worked for. Those questions could not be answered by field agents. Somebody high up in the Bureau had to take charge and contact the NSA. McNabb had reluctantly agreed to make the necessary phone calls, get as much information as he could, and get it to Will. McNabb and another agent assigned to the Marquette office would back Will up later that night in the cemetery. Federal Marshals would also be there.
He opened the door. Sounds intruded: voices, a siren winding down, footsteps from the front of the building.
He stumbled into a chaotic scene. Three of his deputies huddled around Sandi Mirkowski, the dispatcher, by the front door. Sandi’s face was tear streaked, and she hugged her arms across her chest. Jack Pierson lay on a gurney that two paramedics pushed through the lobby.
Oh, shit, Will thought. Adrenaline flooded his gut.
Sandi looked up at him with anguish in her eyes. “I called you. You didn’t answer. I even called Cathy.”
“Phone was dead,” he said. “I was asleep in my office.”
Sandi’s eyes grew round. “You could have been ….” She sniffled and wiped tears from her eyes. “Call Cathy. She’s worried sick. We didn’t know where you were. I –”
“I’m sorry I caused a panic,” Will said. “I parked out back.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
Out on the street an ambulance had backed up to the door and another ambulance waited. All the day shift’s patrol cars were parked at the curb or in the street. Two State troopers’ cars were double-parked behind them. A small crowd of bystanders milled on the sidewalk.
He tucked his wrinkled shirt in and hurried toward the gurney. Jack lay still, eyes closed, an oxygen mask in place. His face bore traces of blood.
“What the hell’s going on?” Will said to the medic at the foot of the gurney.
“We got a body in the back.” The man’s name badge said Tim. “Sandi found Jack out cold in the interrogation room beside a dead guy. ME’s back there now.”
How had this happened? He must have been utterly exhausted to have slept through the whole incident.
Will glanced at Jack and huffed out a breath. “Jack?”
“Hit his head,” the other paramedic said. “Hopefully, it’s just a concussion, not a skull fracture. He’s in and out. Doesn’t really remember what happened. He was unconscious when Sandi found him, but he’s been talking. He’s just not making a lot of sense.”
Two men wearing black coroner’s office shirts pushed a gurney from the interrogation room, maneuvering it around the door to the hallway. It held a body bag.
Will pointed. “Who’s that?”
“Don’t know for sure,” one of the ME guys said. “No ID on him ‒ “
Will pulled the zipper down and looked into the lifeless face of Charles B. Evans, aka Charles Bronson Stitt. He zipped the bag up. “Well, this time he’s really dead.”
“Huh?” The ME guy frowned.
“It’s a story. How’d he die?”
“Doc thinks his neck is broken.” He shook his head and whistled. “Says somebody with military training prob’ly did it. Not a mark on him otherwise.”
Will turned to the dispatcher. Sandi Mirkowski slumped in a chair. Despite her broad stature, she looked diminished. Her whole body shook.
“God, Will.” Her voice trembled. “If only I’d come in early. I stopped at Donut Heaven and ran into Junior Carson. He was going off-shift, said it was his turn to bring donuts to the morning people. So I said I’d pick them up and he could go on home. If only I’d been here ‒”
“It’s okay, Sandi,” Will said. “This isn’t your fault. It’s a good thing you and Junior weren’t here. Let’s go see Jack.”
He put an arm around Sandi’s shoulders and drew her toward the doorway. The door was propped open with a cement block. Outside State Police post commander Captain Steve Reynolds talked softly with one of his detectives and another from Will’s department. They looked up at Will.
“Steve?” Will said.
“Where the hell’d you come from?” Steve said.
“I was asleep in my office. Didn’t hear a thing.”
“Damn fine mess you got here, Will.” Steve put the small notebook on which he had been taking notes back in his shirt pocket. His expression turned grim. “Prob’ly a good thing you were sleeping. You might’ve been another casualty.”
Will motioned everybody aside while the paramedics pushed Jack toward the ambulance. Jack’s eyes opened.
“Will,” he said, recognition flooding his face. “I ‒ I messed up. They blindsided me. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Jack. Not your fault,” Will said.
The gurney was loaded into an ambulance and the doors closed. A few moments later the vehicle pulled away, lights flashing and siren whooping.
“Will?” State Police Detective Murray Fielding spoke. “There’s nobody else in the building. Your people searched it top to bottom. Whoever did this, got away. Sandi says she saw a black pickup pull away when she was arriving. She thought it was Pierson’s truck.” The detective tapped his notebook with a pen. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Bad judgment,” Will said. “Mine.”
Howard Spencer, the county coroner, strode from the office.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” the doctor said. He was a lean, middle-aged man with quick movements.
“Hi Doc,” Will said. “Any ideas?”
“Jack?” Spencer shook his head. “Hit his head on the edge of the table. I think it’s just going to be a hell of a bump. The other guy? Broken neck. Perp military. SEAL, maybe. They learn to do that sort of thing.” He sighed.
Like iron filings to a magnet, the men and women of his department had drawn in around Will and the State Police detective. He turned to the crowd. The half dozen officers awaited his orders.
Will held up a hand, and the buzz of conversation died.
“Gentlemen and lady,” he said with a nod to the only female officer present, a veteran of the force, having served under the previous sheriff. “What we have here is a delicate and difficult situation. It’s important that you be as tight-lipped as possible about this for the next few hours. Don’t talk to anybody from the TV station or the Daily Press.” He turned and glared at the two men who were closing the ambulance door. They nodded and went around to the front of the vehicle. No reason for someone to ride in the back with a dead man.
&nbs
p; Will ushered everybody back inside. When they had assembled in the lobby, he shut the front door and turned to them. “I can’t go into details,” he said, “but I believe the lives of two, possibly more, civilians are in danger.” He turned to the State Police detective. “Murray, the body is Charles B. Evans.”
Murray held up the wallet from the desk. “Got it.”
“Also known as Charles Bronson Stitt,” Will said. He looked at the dispatcher. “Sandi?” She sat more upright in the chair. Although pale, she appeared clear-eyed. “You okay to work?”
She was a sturdy woman whose ancestors had worked in the iron mines over at Iron Mountain. She came from tough stock. She gulped a deep breath. “I can do it.”
Will addressed the group once more. “Supervisory Special Agent Hal McNabb from the FBI office in Marquette is coming down here. He’s bringing another agent, and a couple of federal Marshals will show up.”
Captain Reynolds raised his eyebrows. “There might be a jurisdictional problem here.”
Will acknowledged his gaze with a nod. “We’ll sort it out later. Later the Feds will be in charge.”
Will turned back to Sandi and handed her a slip of paper. “This is McNabb’s cell phone number. He’s supposed to be here by seven tonight with reinforcements. It’s going to be a long day. You’ll all work overtime. When McNabb calls, send him down to Lakeview Cemetery in Cedar River. Tell him to go in quiet at exactly 10:45 tonight. No sooner. It’s important this is timed right. Have fire rescue and an ambulance wait a couple miles down the road. South of the cemetery. No lights or sirens. You up to this?”
Sandi’s brown eyes widened. She drew in a breath and nodded.
Will surveyed his officers. “I need one of you to ride with me tonight and two more in a separate car.”
A forest of hands went up. Will pointed to the female deputy and two others. “Lynn, Doug and Gary. Go home, get some sleep. Be back here at seven with vests. And extra ammo for the shotguns.” He turned to the dispatcher. “Sandi, my vest is, well, somewhere else. Find me another, please. And put out a BOLO for Jack’s truck. Do not approach or apprehend.”
Double Danger Page 21