Killing Pace

by Douglas Schofield

  Paper! Who the hell uses paper anymore?

  It was annual report time and suddenly it was all about graphs and tables and pontificating assessments. Compute the crime rate in country A. Are the statistics honestly presented or deceptive? What should we tell American tourists considering a visit there? Review the capital-friendliness markers for country B. Should our multinational corporations risk investment there? The U.S. ranked fifteenth on the U.N.’s latest World Happiness Report. Why? What are those other fourteen countries doing that our government isn’t? Should the secretary congratulate their leaders or keep his embarrassed mouth shut?

  In other words, it was the kind of work that would make any sane analyst pray for the weekend.

  So the call from Renate Richter with a message from Laura, asking him to take two weeks’ leave, pack a bag, and be at a small airport in Virginia by seven tomorrow night came as a welcome piece of excitement.

  “This is the endgame, Mr. Bird.”

  “I’ll bring my gear.”

  “I’ll put something on the plane that might help.”

  “I have a pretty good suite.”

  “Do you have a Lac 9352?”

  “A Lacaille! I thought they were just a myth!”

  “Just because it can’t be seen with the naked eye doesn’t mean it’s not there. It will allow you and me to interface wherever we are. And I think you’ll like the software.” A pause. “But, Richard, a small caution…”

  “What?”

  “It’s a loan, not a present.”

  That little exchange had upped the excitement tenfold for Richard. Lacaille laptops were the stuff of fable on the darknet, a hacker’s ultimate wet dream. Named after a red dwarf star in the constellation Piscis Austinus, they were supposedly created in some secret lab in South Africa and sold for a small fortune on a website Richard had never been able to find. Even at the annual Defcon conference in Las Vegas—an annual gathering for digital scofflaws that Richard had attended a few times under an assumed name—the topic had only come up late at night after too many drinks. And even then, it came up very rarely. There was almost a superstition about it. Defcon panelists always underscored the fact that people are the weakest link in cybersecurity, so it was understandable that no one wanted to acknowledge, publicly or privately, a software ground assault unit that didn’t require a human weakness to exploit.

  It was a system reputedly stolen from Tailored Access Operations, the NSA’s premier hacking unit.

  Stolen … and improved.

  Manassas Regional Airport was an hour’s drive from his house. The Gulfstream was waiting on the apron when he arrived. As he sauntered toward the terminal, a uniformed copilot emerged through the main doors to greet him. He was quickly escorted through security and out to the plane.

  “Is this a U.N. jet?” Dickie asked, a bit awestruck as he stepped into a forty-foot-long hushed world of woven carpet and upholstered divans.

  The pilot notched an eyebrow. “Sometimes.” He gestured. “Galley’s here. There’s beer in the fridge. Help yourself and grab a seat. We’re leaving right away.”

  “How long’s the flight?”

  “Two hours.” He started for the cockpit, then turned back. “Oh, by the way”—he pointed at a built-in credenza sitting midcabin—“there’s a package for you in the left side drawer.”

  Left alone in the spacious cabin, with wide comfortable seats, LED lighting, and a wireless broadband multilink system, Dickie spent those two hours in the thrall of a brand-new Lacaille. Renate Richter had been right. There was nothing in his own computer that wasn’t already loaded on the Lacaille. And so much more.

  Treasures beyond compare.

  He was still picking his way through the software when the captain announced they were turning on final.

  The next hour was a little more unsettling. Even though he knew that Laura had vanished into the protection of some nameless United Nations unit, it was still a bit unnerving to be met by a hard-looking man with a tattoo on his neck and a ring in his ear holding an Android tablet with a lit-up screen that read: R.B.

  “I’m Rolf,” the man said, as he took Richard’s bag and led him straight out the nearest set of doors to a Range Rover with smoked-out windows. Two things struck Richard immediately. First, that the vehicle was parked at the curb right outside the door in a clearly marked No Stopping zone. Second, that the vehicle had diplomatic license plates.

  Rolf opened the curbside rear door and gestured that he should get in. He complied.

  As they pulled away, his escort said, “Lie down and stay out of sight.” He complied.

  They drove for fifteen minutes, then turned sharply. The light dimmed. Richard looked up and saw concrete. They were in a parkade. Rolf got out. Almost immediately, the silence of the garage was punctured by the whine of an electric drill motor. From the direction of the sound, and the vibration of the vehicle, he could tell it was applied first to the front, then to the rear.

  He’s switching license plates.…

  Rolf got back behind the wheel. They drove off. When they hit the street, Rolf leaned back.

  “Do you understand what just happened?”

  Do I play dumb?

  Laura will laugh.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Welcome to our world, Mr. Bird.”

  40

  Laura was under no illusions about Conrad Nelthorp’s future prospects. She guessed that when his usefulness ran out, he’d probably end up in a landfill somewhere. Lanza had promised Renate that he would be “circumspect”—his word—in his treatment of the man, depending on how much information he provided on the Mazzaras, and how much could be salvaged from the auto parts business. But it didn’t take much insight to realize that, deal or no deal, from Lanza’a point of view, Nelthorp knew too much. If he ended up in federal custody, he’d try to trade Gustavo Mazzara’s involvement in the baby-smuggling ring for immunity. But if the U.S. attorney balked at the offer, Laura had no doubt that Nelthorp would throw in Lanza as a sweetener.

  Lanza couldn’t take that risk, and Laura knew that.

  The fact remained that Laura had left law-abiding scruples in her rear view the moment she’d awakened from her amnesiac dreamland and discovered she’d been framed for murder. She’d already made the choice to use Nelthorp—an unrepentant trafficker in children who had attempted to have her abducted and killed back in Catania—and then leave him to whatever fate Lanza had in store for him.

  She had made that choice, and a few others she wasn’t proud of, and she and the rest of the team had agreed on those choices.

  They’d also agreed that there was no reason for Dickie or Scott to know about them.

  Laura was waiting in the foyer when Rolf showed up with Dickie. In his polo shirt, chinos, and scruffy sneakers, her old friend was as charmingly unkempt as ever, although a good bit more wide-eyed than usual. Fortunately he didn’t try to collect on the promised kiss right in front of Rolf, so after a deeply felt hug, she led him into the living room.

  Watching Dickie’s expression as he entered the room to face this enigmatic crew of Euro-spooks, she had to suppress a smile. She made the introductions.

  They all sat.

  Dickie didn’t waste time. He addressed Renate. “When you called, you said Laura needed my help. But you weren’t really clear about the exact assignment.”

  Laura supplied the answer. “I’m a fugitive from justice. Wanted for murder—”

  “Like I didn’t know that.”

  “—and you’re going to help me get caught.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later. First, are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

  “A few snacks on the plane.”

  “No problem. I’m sure our chef can whip something up.” Dickie looked puzzled. Laura smiled. “Our friend Paolo’s not just an ass-kicking agent, he’s a fantastic cook.”

  Grinning, Paolo rose from his seat and took a bow. He headed for the kitchen.

&nbs
p; “You’ll need a place to work,” Renate said. “We’ll get you set up in the bedroom next to Laura’s. Did you bring the—?”

  “Are you kidding? My laptop’s got intense software, but nothing like the one you left on the plane.” His bag was next to his chair. He unzipped an outer pocket, pulled out a thin, black laptop, and passed it to Laura. It bore a deep carmine-colored circular symbol above an engraved alphanumeric: LACAILLE 9352

  “Lacaille? Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a black market design.”

  “Interception capability?”

  “Email, phone, text, in-house apps—private, corporate, government. Anything you want. It’s totally, totally badass.”

  “How fitting. Try not to brag about it too much tomorrow night. We don’t want our guest to feel any more uncomfortable than he already does.”

  “What guest?”

  “Rolf didn’t tell you? Detective Jardine will be joining us for dinner.”

  While Dickie gaped, Renate interposed. “Richard, why don’t you go with Laura and she’ll show you to your room. She’ll help you get set up and explain the operation.”

  If Richard Bird’s heart jumped at the idea of being alone in a bedroom with Laura, it was soon disappointed. Laura had a lot to tell him, and it was nonstop until Renate interrupted to announce that Chef Paolo had come through again.

  * * *

  On the following evening, Scott Jardine arrived just before eight. By then the conversation had loosened up over a few glasses of Paolo’s unsanctioned Super Tuscan.

  As soon as Dickie and Scott had been properly introduced—they’d only spoken for about five seconds when Dickie had cold-called him days before and told him to check his emails—they all sat down for another one of Paolo’s extravaganzas.

  Laura was feeling deeply ashamed. It was one thing to ask Dickie to join them—he’d known Laura for years, he trusted her, he’d been helping from the start, and … well, yeah … he always carried a torch for her. But it was a huge imposition to ask Scott to step in again. He’d arranged her meeting with a Mafia don, and he’d saved her from being arrested by the FBI, but he was a police officer, sworn to uphold the law. He must be agonizing over what he’d done—and over the risk to both his career and his freedom if word of it ever came out.

  And yet here he was again, dining with Laura’s gang of conspirators.

  Over the meal, Renate brought Scott up to date, so far as was necessary, and then Laura explained the next step in the plan. It didn’t escape her that, during the ensuing discussion, Scott and Dickie carefully avoided asking the obvious question:

  What happened to Nelthorp after he landed?

  She was grateful for their constraint because one thing was certain—if one of them had asked, she wasn’t going to lie.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Jardine said finally. “Three U.N. spooks, working illegally on U.S. soil, and an IT hacker from the State Department, all harboring a fugitive who’s wanted for murder and kidnapping. That’s the team.”

  “Right,” Laura replied.

  “And this team is planning to commit various acts in breach of U.S. law.”

  “Correct.”

  “And you want me, a sixteen-year police detective with a clean record, to once again break the law by joining this conspiracy?”

  “Also correct.”

  Jardine folded his napkin and dropped it next to his plate. “Well—”

  Everyone stiffened in their chairs.

  “—when do we start?”

  The atmospherics around the table instantly changed.

  “We start now,” Laura said, “and with you. Why are you willing to help?”

  “From the beginning?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Laura, I wanted to say this after I pulled you out of that motel, but I was…” He took a deep breath. “Look, the first twenty-four hours after you escaped from that hospital were pretty miserable. Yeah, you steered us straight to the pozole man bust. It turned out that creep Lewis had dissolved at least nine corpses. He’s being held without bail. So, I guess I should thank you for that, since no one else ever will. But the FBI were all over me about those two calls I took from you. Their lead agent, Alan Turnbull—” He stopped. “Did you tell them?”

  “They know about him and Corbin.”

  “Okay. So this guy’s been leaning hard. He listened to the other deputies’ accounts about you. He dismissed the amnesia thing right away. He grilled my partner Eric until he was ready to take it outside. He accused me of being too sympathetic, that there was something I wasn’t telling them, that you and I had reached a private understanding, that I’d ‘fallen for the Laura Pace legend,’ as he put it. It didn’t help that you phoned the second time while he was standing at my desk. I tried to give you that message.”

  “I got it.”

  “It made it worse that he only heard one side of the conversation. He kept saying—pardon the language—‘What’s so important about a fucking baby cam?’ I told him I didn’t know. And back then I didn’t. I told him I thought it must be important, that he should have his team check to see if the Edens had purchased a baby monitor. If so, why was it missing? What was on it? He wasn’t interested. He only cared that you were calling me.” He paused. “There’s been some other stuff—bad-mouthing me to the sheriff behind my back. I won’t get into that now, but something you all need to know is that Turnbull’s got an informant in the substation.”

  The table went quiet. Even Paolo, who had been enjoying his own cooking and saying little, stopped eating.

  “It’s the lieutenant’s secretary. Her name’s Bernice Castellano.”

  Dickie straightened in his chair. He was about to say something, but Laura shot him a look and he stayed quiet.

  “She used to work at Homeland,” Jardine continued. “She was a secretary with Customs, back before 9/11. She stayed on after the reorganization. Bounced around some of the Florida offices—Jacksonville, Tampa, Miami. The story is she left the department to get married. The marriage didn’t last, but Homeland wouldn’t take her back. Someone in HR looked up her old annual assessments and wasn’t impressed. She’s pushing fifty, so age probably had something to do with it, not that anyone would ever admit it. So she got the job with us a few years ago and moved to Everglades City.”

  Laura: “And you think—”

  “I know. Our facility for handicapped folks is separate from the male and female restrooms. She goes in there to make calls on her cell. She doesn’t know that the a/c duct for that bathroom also supplies our file room. Twice now I’ve overheard her on the phone, repeating comments I’ve made about your case. The second time, I deliberately said something to the lieutenant when she was in his office. A few minutes later, I saw her enter the handicapped bathroom, so I ducked into the file room. I heard her repeating what I said, word for word. It has to be Turnbull she’s calling. She probably figures he’ll help her get back into a federal job. It’s no secret around our office that he thinks I’m compromised.” He smiled weakly. “But then … I guess I am.”

  Laura looked at Dickie. “Go ahead. Tell him.”

  “Castellano’s not calling Turnbull,” Dickie said.

  41

  Phyllis Corbin’s home on East 18th in Hialeah was a small and very ordinary cinderblock bungalow. It sat in the middle of the block on a street of scuffed driveways, abandoned kids’ toys, overflowing trash cans, and nineteen other ordinary bungalows in varying states of disrepair.

  All of which had been Corbin’s deliberate choice when she bought it with the assistance of a federal employees home mortgage program.

  If she’d learned anything in her years with Customs it was to keep your private life private, and your net worth to yourself. Especially when it topped $1.4 million.

  But this morning, sitting in her modest kitchen, her knuckles white on her coffee mug, she was thumbing back and forth through the disturbing images on her phone. She had the crawling sens
ation that her net worth was about to be put at risk.

  Not to mention her life.

  She’d already known trouble was coming when Nelthorp didn’t meet the plane at Boca Raton. After waiting for two hours, the pilot had grabbed a taxi and checked the safe house. The driveway was empty and so was the house. He’d returned to the plane and called New York. Mazzara had told him to fly back right away.

  The photographs had arrived twenty minutes ago, accompanied by a message: call.

  Sarah Lockhart had worked for Corbin, so when the Edens were shot and the ballistics came back with a match to her service weapon, she was one of the first to be interviewed. Alan Turnbull had called to warn her that two FBI agents and a Palm Beach detective were on their way to her office. Alan said it was his investigation, but he was staying out of her interview so there would never be a chance of their relationship coming back on them and tainting her evidence.

  She knew what he really meant was coming back on him and besmirching his glorious career, but she kept that thought to herself.

  She’d been happy to provide the investigators with a full statement, only leaving out the matter of their quarry’s true identity. She told them how Lockhart had been on a dual mission in Sicily, deployed on orders from Washington but under her command. She’d been sent there to enhance the CBP’s overseas response to the counterfeit goods trade, and to help the Italians screen the flood of refugees from the conflict in Syria. She explained how her agent had become involved in a separate investigation; how she’d been told to leave that one to ICE; how she’d ignored that order and become so obsessed with the case that she’d burglarized the records office of an orphanage. She related how Lockhart had not only disobeyed a direct order by pursuing the case in Italy, but also returned to Florida midassignment without prior permission. Washington had reacted to all this by arranging for her to be reassigned. She’d ordered Lockhart to brief ICE and then go home and stay there until her transfer became official.

  “There was a lot of insubordination going on here. Why no discipline?” she’d been asked.