by JP Ratto
“Could be he left in a hurry.”
Celeste nodded. “Yes, it looks like it. Normally, these files would be locked in his desk.”
“Call his phone and see if he answers,” I said. “Also, call his wife; she may know something.”
Boxer raised an eyebrow at my brusque orders. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Yes, sir.”
“His sedan is still in the garage,” I announced after checking the tracking again.
Boxer and I returned to the lobby, which was empty except for Mac and the night guard. Vilari hadn’t answered his cellphone and his wife hadn’t heard from him.
Celeste Boxer approached the guard. “Ma’am.” The guard acknowledged her with the nod of his head. “Is something wrong, Ma’am?”
“Did Dr. Robert Vilari sign out within the last hour?” Boxer asked.
He consulted a clipboard. “No, Ma’am.”
“No one left the building?”
“Yes, a gentleman did at 9:23 p.m.” He squinted at the scrawled signature. “Hard to read his writing, but I wrote down his name from the ID. Alexander Hoffman.”
“Thank you.” Boxer turned to me; her face was stone except for the slight movement of her lips as she uttered two terse words.
“Find Vilari.”
CHAPTER 24
Pacing in front of the bench, Vilari’s thoughts turned to his wife. She had been patient, accepting promise after promise that his long hours on the project would end and they could turn their attention to each other. She told him she was tired of his late night work. Worried that he was having an affair, she turned to counseling and medication. His erratic behavior brought on by his anxiety had added to her suspicion, which he deeply regretted. However, not even the truth would appease her pain.
Vilari had visited his lawyer and made sure his affairs were in order. He had a decent nest egg and he owned his home free and clear. He had also insisted that Abboud advance him some money. It was securely deposited. At least I did one thing right. There would be more than enough for Francesca and his children if something happened to him. Vilari wondered if it wouldn’t be better if something did. He would make it up to them whether he lived or not.
***
“I have to be here when the head of security and the technicians show up,” Celeste said. “You need to find Vilari. Keep in touch.” Her cellphone rang and she moved away to take the call.
I left the building. The fresh air did little to ease the knots in the back of my neck. How could I not have been prepared for what happened? While Celeste Boxer and I were planning to catch a thief, he was stealing the toxin out from under our noses. What was I missing?
Mac had gone to the garage to check Vilari’s car. About to join him, he called me first to say that Vilari was not there. Mac said he would check the other levels and then would search the area on foot. He suggested that since I could track Vilari, I stay close to my car in case he came back and was on the move.
I entertained the idea Vilari had left his car and had another ride or took public transportation to his destination. The big question was where that was. Perhaps I should have thought to plant a bug in his jacket. I hated chasing my tail and that’s how it felt to have been so close to monitoring Vilari only to have him slip away.
***
The biting cold caused by the sharp wind fueled Vilari’s impatience. He was tempted to call Abboud and ask where the hell this “Guy” was. He stood behind a tree for shelter, keeping the bench within sight. He straightened at attention when a group of commuters exited the subway. Could his contact be one of them? Vilari moved back to the bench and sat. A man and woman in trench coats breezed by him, speaking to each other in an out-of-breath chatter. Another man dressed in jeans and sweater ran past and quickly entered the station’s parking garage. Vilari was so intent on the passersby, he didn’t notice who was coming towards him with brisk, easy strides. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and swiveled around in time to see the solid figure towering over him.
“Dr. Vilari.”
“Guy?” Vilari attempted to rise from the bench. Despite his handsome dark looks and tailored slacks and jacket, Guy appeared menacing as he stood in the shadow cast by the lamplight.
“Don’t get up,” Guy said, his voice a deep baritone. He glanced around. “You have something for me.”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?” Guy prompted with impatience.
“Yes,” Vilari said, only able to answer in one-syllable words. His hands shook as he groped his pocket for the small black case. He gave it to Guy, who slipped it into his pocket.
With all his trepidation and worry over handing the toxin to the wrong person, Vilari asked no questions. Just did what he was told. He sighed with relief that the task was done, only to catch his breath at the sight of an aluminum briefcase Guy held at his side.
Vilari stuttered, “Is…is that my payment?”
Guy grinned. “No, Dr. Vilari. This is the next step in the process.”
Next step? “What are you talking about? I was told I only had to deliver the vials to you. I’m done.” Vilari stood abruptly, making Guy back out of his way.
“I don’t believe that’s what you were told, Dr. Vilari. Can we get on with this? I’m in a hurry.” Guy held out the briefcase and a folded piece of paper. “Get rid of the burner phone you have. Inside this case is another phone, as well as what you will deliver. Here’s the combination.” He handed the case and paper to Vilari. “Expect a call later this evening. You’ll be told where to go. Then you’re done.”
Vilari was incredulous. He began to sputter his words, “Th…this is insane. What’s in this case?” Vilari asked, holding up the briefcase in his two hands. “Something illegal? God almighty, isn’t it enough that I had to steal a deadly toxin?” Vilari shook his head. “I refuse. I’m done. I need to get home. My wife is already suspicious of me. She thinks—”
“Yes, I know,” Guy interrupted. “She thinks you’re having an affair. Deliver the briefcase or by morning your wife will receive enough evidence of your indiscretions to divorce you, take everything you own, and make sure you never see your children again.” When Vilari faltered, Guy grabbed his elbow to keep him from falling.
“Man up, Vilari. You’re in the home stretch,” Guy said and left.
Vilari stumbled back and sat heavily onto the bench. The wind had died down and the sky twinkled with a few distant stars. He stared at his feet, at the expensive Italian shoes he wore, and thought how much he would give to be that barefoot vagrant instead of Dr. Robert Vilari, thief, coward—traitor.
***
As more time passed with no sign of Vilari, I berated myself for not anticipating a change in the plan to steal the toxin. Whoever was masterminding the theft had found another way to distract the guard, eliminating the need for Charles Gates—eliminating the need to keep Brandon alive. Why kidnap Brandon at all? Was his abduction more personal? Now Vilari was missing, and I had no way to find Brandon Gates.
It had been fifteen minutes since Mac told me Vilari’s car was in the parking garage. Mac was still scouring the area, and I was on the way to my Rover. I decided to make a stop and check Vilari’s car myself. If he found the tracker, then it could be lying on the garage floor and Vilari could be long gone.
Down one level from the street, the late model Lexus ES350 sat in a secluded corner of the garage. Vilari had backed in, perhaps for an easy get away. I crept along the wall and approached the charcoal-gray sedan so as not to be seen by anyone sitting inside. As that area of the garage was not well lit, I used a small LED pocket flashlight to check around and inside the car. Vilari kept the car clean—no trash or coffee cups in the holders and there was nothing on the seats. I tried the driver’s side door handle and was surprised the car was unlocked. I popped the trunk. It was empty except for a set of golf clubs.
Where was Vilari?
As if my thoughts conjured him, Vilari appeared head down and trudging tow
ard his car. The man looked as if he carried an invisible six-ton elephant on his back. He paused to set down a silver aluminum briefcase and blow his nose into a handkerchief. I closed the trunk gently and crept back out of view.
Using a small monocular, I watched Vilari lay the briefcase on top of the closed trunk. He consulted a piece of paper from his pocket and manipulated the dials on the case until the locks opened. Vials of liquid, exactly like the ones I’d seen in the lab, were set in a black tray. Also inside was a phone, which Vilari removed and slipped into his jacket. He closed the briefcase and locked it. Vilari laid the case on the front passenger seat, slid into the car, and started the engine.
Exiting the garage, I ran toward my Rover. I turned to see Vilari’s Lexus leave the parking facility and barrel down the empty street.
I called Mac as I reached my car. He was already in his and waiting to hear from me.
“Vilari just left the garage,” I told Mac. “He has an aluminum briefcase and there are vials inside that must be the toxin and anti-toxin. Once he gets to his destination and we verify Brandon’s location, we need to stop him before he makes delivery.”
“Yup, see him now,” Mac said. “I’m going to keep a distant tail. Catch up when you can.”
Checking the tracker, I drove down Wisconsin Avenue with every hope Vilari would lead us to Brandon Gates.
CHAPTER 25
Robert Vilari pulled into his driveway and exited the car. The cool night breeze felt invigorating when it touched the perspiration on his face. He opened his jacket to release the warmth radiating from his body. The outdoor floodlight over the garage lit up bright when he walked past it. Vilari stopped and gazed at the place he’d called home for over twenty years. Large and white, he’d painted the clapboard house himself last summer. He’d taken pride in its upkeep—the physical work was a welcome break from the mind-numbing minute details of his job. He noticed a crack in one of the pavers and made a mental note to fix it. The basketball hoop planted in concrete at the driveway’s edge reminded him that his son would be home from college soon, and he looked forward to a one-on-one.
Smiling at the thought of seeing his children again, he entered the foyer, coming face-to-face with Francesca. She appeared disheveled, tears streaked her cheeks, and her forehead was lined from worry. She was still, except for her hands that twisted the damp tissues she held.
“Robert, where have you been? I…I was so scared.”
He placed the briefcase down and hugged her, careful not to put his moist cheek on hers.
“I’m so sorry. What have you heard?” He wasn’t ready to look her in the eyes. She always could tell when he lied.
“I received a phone call from Celeste Boxer. She wanted to know if I heard from you. When I told her you were working late, she didn’t respond. Then she said, ‘Thank you. If he calls, tell him to get in touch with me as soon as possible,’ and hung up. She was curt and sounded stressed.”
Vilari took her clasped hands in one of his and gave them a consoling pat. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see her tomorrow. I need to get a few hours’ sleep.” He started up the stairs to the bedroom. “I have to go back to the office very early in the morning.”
“But why, Robert?” For the hundredth time she asked, “When will this be over?”
He turned to look at her, and with a weak smile, he said, “Tomorrow. It’s over tomorrow. I promise.”
***
For several hours, Mac and I sat in my Range Rover at the end of Robert Vilari’s street in Chevy Chase, Maryland. From our vantage point, we could see Vilari’s car parked in his driveway. I hadn’t expected him to go home with a briefcase full of lethal chemicals and the unforeseen event was frustrating. Mac was silent and his head rested on the back of the seat, his eyes closed. I thought he’d fallen asleep and his calm demeanor annoyed me. He must have heard me sigh.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. “Vilari in for the night?”
“I don’t know. I thought for sure he would have handed off the product right away. Something’s not right.”
“Whoever is behind this knows you’re watching and knows you won’t do anything to jeopardize Brandon’s life. They can take their time and wait for you to look the other way.”
“I hope that’s not true or else we could be tailing him for days.”
“Good thing I don’t charge by the hour,” Mac said and put his head back again.
“Working for Gates, you must have met Brandon. How well do you know him?” I asked.
Mac shrugged, his eyes still closed. “I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s a good kid. Smart. Respectful—most of the time.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s had a few differences of opinion with his parents. I chalk it up to coming into one’s own. You know me; I’m not tied to any society or religion, so I can’t understand what all the fuss is about. Apparently, Brandon is breaking ranks with his family on some issues. He’s become a nonconformist and that’s worrying his parents and, to some extent, the commander. I doubt it’s anything serious.”
I hadn’t informed Mac of all the details of my investigation. It was Gates’s prerogative to do so, but I wanted an unbiased view. “I found a Koran in his room, and he’s involved with a Muslim girl.”
Turning to look at me, I could see by his expression that Mac was sorting through all the ramifications of what I’d told him. Having been in the Middle East, we’d been exposed to Muslims of all walks—the peaceful and the extremists. There were times when we relied on the Iraqi people for information and assistance. Many came to our aid even though they knew they were risking their lives. Mac and I learned not to rush to judgment.
“Are you thinking he’s in on this theft and faking his kidnapping?” Mac sounded incredulous. “A bit too Patty Hearst, don’t you think?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know what to think. But after speaking with his girlfriend, I tend to believe she’s telling the truth and Brandon is not involved in anything nefarious. I wanted to get your take because you know him and I don’t.”
“Go with your gut, Lucas.”
At that moment, my gut was reminding me I was hungry. Also, I didn’t relish hours awake with nothing to do but think. Too many unpleasant thoughts drifted in and out of my head. Although a huge component of investigative work, I hated this type of surveillance, and patience wasn’t one of my strong suits. My phone vibrated, reminding me I had a few missed calls and messages. Scanning the numbers, I saw a couple from Ray Scully and one call from Maddie.
If Mac wasn’t in the car, I might have called her back, even though it was two a.m. She was on my mind a lot lately; more than any other woman I’d met in the last few years. Now that Susan was gone, the niggling hope for a reunion was also gone. Surprisingly, the void I thought I’d feel wasn’t there. Of course, there was a sense of loss, but not hopelessness. Over the years, Susan had encouraged me to move on as she had. Though I found it difficult before, I was almost ready to get on with my life. Finding Marnie would be part of that process.
My phone vibrated again. I didn’t recognize the number, but welcomed the intrusion to the monotony of waiting.
“Hello?”
“Please…Mr. Holt,” a woman sobbed. “I…I need your help.”
“Miss Shaheen?”
“I…I’m so sorry. Yes, it’s Ghada Shaheen. Please…”
As Ghada cried into the phone, my mind raced with questions. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“It is my brother. He’s going to kill Brandon!”
Ghada Shaheen was hysterical, and I wasn’t going to get any useful information over the phone. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Vilari, but what Ghada was saying sounded urgent. If she had information that could help find Brandon, I had to follow up. I asked for her address and told her I’d be there in a half hour. I updated Mac, who left to watch Vilari’s house from his Jeep Wrangler, parked behind me.
***
With no traff
ic and a disregard for speed limits, I made it to the Third Street D.C. address Shaheen provided in twenty minutes. The neighborhood was in transition, a mix of old and newly renovated single-family row houses. The mosque I passed on the way indicated the area residents were primarily Muslim.
There were few streetlights, and the one nearest the Shaheens’ house was unlit. I parked just past the house and walked back to the entrance, which was protected by a wrought iron security door. A soft light glowed from a window on the upper floor. The slight movement of a curtain in one of the first floor windows caught my attention. I heard the clicks of several locks and the inside door slowly opened. Through the iron bars, I saw Ghada Shaheen, still sobbing, her face swollen and bruised.
She wore a hijab, which looked hastily thrown on, and a terry cloth robe that she pulled tight around her. Ghada used the collar of the robe to wipe the tears from her face and pushed open the security door. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Holt. Please come in.”
I entered and she led me to a dim living room. She turned up the light on a small brass lamp, which had a six-inch gash in the crooked shade. There was evidence of a struggle in the room. Besides the torn shade, a waist-high cabinet stood askew against a wall. The few objects on top were tossed on their sides. A mirror had hung where a vivid oval patch of paint showed the stark contrast to the rest of the faded wall. A few slivers of glass still lay scattered on the floor that Ghada missed in the cleanup.
Turning to Ghada, I reached out and tipped up her chin. “Your brother did this to you?” I could feel my anger rise to heat my neck and face.
“Yes,” she whispered and adjusted the hijab to hide a hideous bulge on one cheek.