Dark Heart

by James Phelan

  In this case, the shot under the chin was dead-on. The contents of Overton’s skull were mainly on the cream-painted ceiling, although a lot of it had then fallen onto the beige couch and armchair. Globs of brain matter clung like stalactites, chips of skull pierced into the plaster ceiling, and the blood splatter was a four-foot diameter piece of absurdist art. Justice Department used the Sig Sauer P226, in many variations; in Overton’s case, the compact P229R version, to better fit her hands. The result of the .357 bullet at close range was devastating. It must have been loaded with some sort of hollow-point rounds. All that explosive kinetic energy in a mushrooming piece of metal obliterating Overton’s head. The firearm was on the floor near Overton’s lifeless right hand, and it looked clearly enough like that was where it had fallen from her grasp as she’d collapsed to the floor a split second after pulling the trigger.

  “But she shot herself.” Muertos looked back down. “In the head.”

  “No,” Walker said. He put a hand on Muertos’s shoulder and waited until she looked at him before saying clearly, “Sally didn’t kill herself.”

  “But—” Muertos glanced down, then back up, and closed her eyes tightly, as though if she tried hard enough she could un-see and undo the scene before her.

  “She was killed,” Walker said. “Shot close range. It was quick. They didn’t hurt her badly.”

  “They didn’t hurt her—badly?”

  Walker nodded.

  “What does that even mean—how do you know?”

  “There was a struggle.” He looked away from her and walked the room, then squatted down near Overton. He used his phone to push up Overton’s open shirt cuff of her gun hand. “See here—the bruise marks on her wrists? That’s where someone big and strong held her. Probably before questioning her, and then forcing her own hand to make the shot. And the way she was shot tells me it wasn’t suicide. If it’s any consolation, it was quick.”

  “Quick?”

  “She’d know how to fight, and she didn’t get the chance.”

  “But . . .” Muertos looked down at her friend. Her shoulders slumped, but there was something in her face, her eyes, that said it was more bearable, more palatable, if her friend’s life had been taken, rather than the alternative. “Why would someone make it look like this?”

  Walker was silent.

  “I should have been with her last night,” Muertos said. “I should have been there for her.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done, so don’t feel any shame about this.” Walker stood and looked around. “Anger, sure, directed at those who did it. If you’d been here, they’d have killed you too.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know we’ll catch up with them soon enough.”

  Muertos did a quick pace of the room. “There’s no other signs of a struggle.”

  “The front door was locked and the chain was on,” Walker said. “And the rear door to the fire escape has a slide-across bolt.”

  “So, if there was a killer they exited through the window?”

  “Yes,” Walker said. He found a wine glass, near the computer. Just one. “But how’d the killer get in? She either let them in, which means she trusted them, or he got in the same way he went out.”

  “Her bruised wrists could be from anything,” Muertos said. “Training maybe?”

  “No,” Walker said, moving back to the body and again using his phone to push Overton’s hand to the side. “It’s recent, still swollen. A hand gripped around her right wrist and forced it to the firing position under the chin. A large hand, almost as wide as her firearm is long. See, those are marks from the tips of someone’s fingers? A big, strong grip. Very strong. Maybe even fractured the bones in the process. Holding her by the other wrist too, maybe at first to talk, then to comply with the shot.”

  “So . . .” Muertos stood by the front door and looked at Walker, who stood and faced her. “A CIA team or medical examiner will see through this just as quickly as you did,” she said. “So, why bother setting it up to look like this?”

  “To buy a little time,” Walker said. He went back to the computer and tried it. It was dead. And not just for lack of power—the casing was loose, and when he lifted it up he saw that the hard-drive and mother-board were missing. If she had a government-issue laptop, that was gone too. “Forensics will get here, work the crime scene and send the body off to full autopsy. They have all kinds of procedures to follow, boxes to tick. And because it’s one of their own, they’re going to take their time here. First responders and crime scene will pick what I’ve seen, sure. They’ll suspect it. Proof, and finding the perpetrator, is something else. So, they’ll follow their procedures. Take photographs, dust for fingerprints, collect fibers, DNA, the works. It’ll take a day or two for the full report from here and from the morgue. And sure, they’ll know from the get-go that she was held at the wrists, but not beyond reasonable doubt in a court of law that it was part of the action that killed her until they run all their tests.”

  “So, they’ll suspect it, they’ll assume it, but it’ll look like an apparent murder until then?”

  “Yep. They’ll be preparing for a murder, sure. They’ll get uniformed DC Metro cops door-knocking for witnesses straightaway, because Sally was one of their own and they’ll want to do all that they can within the limitations—but they won’t be able to go nuclear until the official report is in.”

  “Nuclear?”

  “Figure of speech,” Walker said, standing up. “They won’t put it to the media, they won’t set up perimeters on the interstates and beef up security at airports to catch suspects, they won’t subpoena all security video footage from local houses and businesses, they won’t get drones in the air overhead, that kind of thing.”

  “So, staging it this way buys them a day or two from all that.”

  “Yep, and that’s a day or two longer than they would have had if Overton had gone to her supervisors last night, and a day or two longer than if the killer had simply gunned her down in the street.” Walker stalked the room, his eyes darting around, searching.

  “So, the killers need a day. Another day, to get away from the area, or to do whatever it is they’re planning.”

  “Or they’re planning something long term,” Walker said, crouching down and looking under chairs. “And this is about cleaning things up so that the trail ends as soon as it’s begun.”

  “Who’s they?” Muertos looked at Walker. “Almasi and his big goon?”

  “Maybe.” He looked to Muertos. “That’s the million-dollar question. It’s related to them, it has to be. But was this done by them? Or someone else they’re working with?”

  “Like those two Homeland guys?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You really think a couple of corrupt Homeland agents would kill a fellow Fed?”

  “Depends how bent they are, and what’s at stake.”

  “How’d they find Sally?”

  “Perhaps they got Clair Hayes to talk, to give Overton up. Then they came here and did this. That’s my bet, but we don’t know for sure yet. That’s why we need to move fast.”

  “Fast? What do we do now?” Muertos said. “Sally was our only hope.”

  “Look for her cell phone. Not her official one. The burner. And her handbag. And if you see a laptop or tablet computer or notebooks, grab them. Phone bills, Post-Its. Anything she might have recorded info on.”

  “That’s all evidence at a crime scene—a murder scene.” Muertos was careful not to look at the body of her friend as she spoke.

  “And the authorities don’t need it,” Walker said. “But we do. They’ll have access to all the content on her phone and computer—it’ll all be backed up to a cloud and in phone records and data servers. It’s only useful to us—we need to find what we can, and then we’ll try to reach out to the other two agents Overton said she was using on this off-books op.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll take the bedroom.”

  Walk
er carefully patted Overton’s pockets with the back of his hand. Nothing. He checked the couch and lounge chairs, under and behind loose cushions. He saw Muertos head out of the room, heard her in the kitchen, then the bedroom, moving with heavy feet. Overton was her friend. She’s like a sister to me. Her father helped my mother, a long time ago. He wondered how Muertos would cope with this over the coming hours. Would she fall apart? Or become a liability in confronting someone they suspected? Walker stared at the bookcase that lined a wall around a covered-up fireplace. Should he cut Muertos loose? Now that the killing had started, she was well out of her depth—she’d been an analyst at the State Department, not a field officer. Maybe she should stay here, or near here, and call in the murder. She could then brief Overton’s Secret Service colleagues . . .

  “No handbag,” Muertos said, re-entering the room. “No cell phone, no laptop or tablet. Whoever did this must have taken them.”

  “The killer made away with the hard drive and Overton’s official phone,” Walker said. “But maybe not the burner phone she’d used to contact her missing agent and two colleagues. Keep looking.”

  Muertos started taking books off the bookshelf. Walker looked down at the body. The way it was splayed, her left arm pointed up above her head, her right arm down by her side. He crouched down again. Looked around at ground level.

  “I think—” Muertos stopped herself. Looked down to Walker. “You hear that?”

  “Yes,” Walker said.

  He moved around the room. Then stopped. Not nothing. He heard a sound. Not the ringing of a phone. A vibration. Constant. Brrrrr. Nearby. Low. He listened near the body. No. He moved to the right. The bookcase. The sound was getting louder. He kneeled down and looked underneath. The cell-phone screen was lit up, the little device shifting on the floorboards—and then it stopped. He scooped up the phone, probably a prepaid Walmart special, untraceable, off the grid, mission specific.

  The missed call was from Jim Bennet.

  Walker said, “Our next lead.”

  29

  Seventy miles away a phone rang.

  “Yes?” Almasi answered.

  Harvey asked, “Have you cleaned it all up?”

  “The operation is still in play,” Almasi replied.

  “What do you mean, still in play?”

  “My man is still in the field. Working.”

  “Have him work faster. This mess ends with those agents. Then we can talk about finding you a new role.”

  “I’m working as fast as I can.”

  “Lewis wants to shut this down today.”

  There was a pause. Almasi looked out the back window. A black mare was running with its foal across vivid green grass. “And is that what you want?”

  “I want this to go on until we’re finished,” Harvey said, “but it’s not entirely up to me.”

  “I will get this done today. Will that make a difference for your colleague? Might he rethink the pull-out of Syria? It is still a gold mine . . .”

  “I think my colleague is too spooked. This might be the end of things in that region. This has got far too close, with what’s now happening here at home.”

  “Funny he should be squeamish about that,” Almasi said.

  Harvey was silent.

  Almasi asked, “Then it’s the end?”

  “It’s lasted longer than we expected.”

  “Because we’ve been lucky.”

  “I like to think we make our own luck. It’s been a lot of hard work.”

  “For me too.”

  “You’ve been well compensated.”

  “But what now?”

  “Look,” Harvey said, “if this is cleaned up quick and fast, maybe we can get you back out there. I might be able to sell it to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need my assistance?”

  “Absolutely. My guy is very good at this sort of thing.”

  “It might take more than one guy?”

  “He knows where the targets are. It’s like a, what would you call it—a staged hunt?”

  “That’s assuming you really know where they are.”

  “We have our methods.”

  “We do too—if you had given me their names, I could have given you the addresses of the targets inside a minute.”

  “My method works just fine.”

  There was silence for a while, then Harvey said, “Did your method involve getting the information from the agent you picked up?”

  “Of course. She’s proving most helpful.”

  “You should have—wait,” Harvey said. “She’s still alive?”

  “For now.”

  “Jesus—I don’t want to know.”

  “Relax.”

  “She probably lied to you and—”

  “Relax. She knows not to lie to me.”

  “Okay. Well, make sure she’s gone as soon as this is cleaned up. And don’t leave any trace of her where you’re staying.”

  “I’ll see to it personally.”

  “Right. Well, all going well I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  There was a pause. “But what about tonight?”

  “Tonight won’t work,” Harvey said.

  There was silence.

  “Get done what you need to get done,” Harvey said. “And wait for me. And until this is all cleared up, and you’re sure you’re clean, I mean really sure, there’s no chance in hell you can meet my colleague.”

  Almasi said, “You said I could meet him tonight.”

  “And you said you’d have those agents taken care of by daybreak. This is a delicate task. Until it’s all cleaned up for sure. Tomorrow is just one day away. You’ll meet him soon enough. Until then, it’s too dangerous for you to show your face in DC.”

  “It might be too dangerous for you too.”

  Harvey laughed. “No, not for me.”

  “Okay.” Almasi watched the horse and its foal disappear into a tree-line. “Tomorrow.”

  •

  Walker pulled over two blocks from Overton’s house and kept the Beetle idling as he looked over Muertos’s shoulder. “What’s in the phone?”

  “Four numbers in the call log.” She scrolled through the phone, the only piece of Intel they’d found in Overton’s apartment. She handed it to Walker. “There’s your cell number, all the missed calls from your phone from earlier, and three others.”

  “The three agents Overton used for her off-books op,” Walker said, scrolling through the call log. The times of the calls over the past forty-eight hours were at three-hour intervals, just as Overton had said. Her three friends calling in. After around nine pm, there had been many calls to one number, spread over the next four hours, which narrowed the time of death even more. He passed the phone back. “One missing agent, Clair Hayes. The other two numbers are Bennet and Acton. Four missed calls from Bennet in the past hour. We need to talk to him, warn him.”

  “I’ll try calling him, then Acton and Hayes.”

  “Try Hayes first.” Walker watched as Muertos tapped each number. She put it on speaker and they both listened: calling—then straight to voicemail.

  “This is Clair Hayes, leave a message or send one.”

  “It’s not an official message,” Muertos said, ending the call and dialing the next listed number. “They’re not giving their title, or employer, which means the three numbers belong to their operational burner phones, right?”

  Walker nodded. “Acton?”

  The next number also rang through to voicemail.

  “You’ve called Blake Acton. I’m busy right now, but leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”

  The tone sounded, and Muertos looked to Walker, and he nodded.

  “Blake, this is Rachel Muertos, a friend of Sally Overton. You need to call me back asap on this number.”

  She ended the call and scrolled down to the third number. Pressed call. They watched the screen. Calling. Waited.

  Then, a voice answered.
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  30

  “Overton, I’ve been worried,” the voice on the phone said. Male. From Connecticut, to Walker’s ear. “Overton? Can you hear me?”

  Muertos said, “Agent Bennet?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, wary. “Who is this?”

  “I’m afraid I need to—”

  “Who are you? Where’s Overton?”

  “I’m a good friend of Sally Overton. My name’s Rachel Muertos. I’m with the State Department—she might have mentioned me?”

  “No.” The voice was still wary. “Where’s Sally Overton?”

  “She’s . . .” Muertos stopped talking.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Buddy,” Walker said. “I’m sorry, but we have some bad news. Sally Overton was killed. Sometime in the past few hours. You may be—”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name’s Jed Walker. We were just—”

  “Where’s Overton?”

  “At her house,” Walker said. “On the floor of her living room. Single gunshot to the head with her own service side-arm.”

  There was a long pause, then Bennet said, “She would never do that.”

  “We know,” Walker said. “And she didn’t.”

  “How’d you get this phone?”

  “We were just there, at her house.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m with Muertos,” Walker said. “We were—”

  “From the State Department?”

  “Agent Bennet, listen up,” Walker said. “We met with Overton last night. We know about the off-books op, because we’re working on it from another angle. We know about Agent Hayes and her disappearance two nights ago. And now Overton’s dead. Someone shot her and made it look like she did it to herself. Whoever did that will be after you and Agent Acton. We just tried his cell number and it went straight to voicemail—you need to warn him, and get some place safe yourself. You need to do that right now. Some place safe, you understand? Do that and call us back in thirty minutes.”