“Why do you think he’s the one?” I asked. “If he’s been in prison for fifteen years, he couldn’t have had anything to do with the whale tail killings twelve years ago.”
“That’s true, but he’s the only prisoner down there named Jeff who’s been released within the past year. At least the only one not accounted for. A couple of others are on parole, but they’re nowhere near Sarasota and they’re checking in with their parole officers regularly. And, this Jeff shared a cell with Pete Qualman for a couple of years.”
“Bingo,” said Jock.
“I still don’t see the connection to the whale tail murders,” I said.
J.D. smiled at me like she might if I were a child with little understanding of the world. “I don’t either, sweetie, but we’re closer than we were before you came up with Jeff’s name.”
“I like it when you call me ‘sweetie,’” I said. “What now?”
I got the same look again. “More cross-referencing,” she said. “I called Steve Carey, and he said he’d come in tomorrow and take over that job.”
“So you think Jeff is in Sarasota,” said Jock.
“All I’ve got to go on is what that poor girl down in Clewiston had to say.”
“Anything new on Gene’s case?” Jock asked.
“Not really. I’ve been through all the evidence the forensic guys turned up, but there wasn’t much. Whoever the killer was, he was careful. Did you get anything in Washington?”
“Yes. But we’ve got a problem.”
“The missing laptop?” she asked.
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?”
“Most of what I know is a national security problem that only the president, the director of my agency, and I know about. I can’t share it.”
“President of what?” she asked.
“The United States.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you telling me?” she asked.
“Nothing. That’s the problem. I need to know what you know, but I can’t tell you what I know.”
“What are you planning to do with my information?”
“I’m hoping it’ll get me closer to the killer. We’re pretty sure Gene’s murder is connected to something we’re working on.”
“And if you find the killer before I do, what then?” asked J.D.
“That’s some of the stuff I can’t tell you.”
“Or won’t.”
“Gets us to the same place either way.”
“You tell your president that information sharing is a two-way street.”
“Not this time, J.D. I want to cooperate with you because we’re friends, and you’re a hell of a detective, but I can’t. Not on this one. Not without your promise that the information I give you will go no further. Not even to Bill Lester. I’ve got the director’s authorization to share my information with you, but only with the stipulation that it stays with you.”
“Jock,” she said, “I can’t and won’t work outside the department. If the chief tells me I can keep some aspects of this investigation secret, I’ll do it. But not otherwise. And he’s not going to agree to that. He has to answer to the town manager and, eventually, the state attorney and the press.”
Jock shrugged, as if dismissing the subject. “It sounds like you don’t have a whole lot to go on, anyway,” he said.
“I don’t. Not right now. But I will know more. And soon. I’m good at what I do.”
“I know that and I need you. I’ll make a call. In about half an hour, Chief Lester will give you the go-ahead.” He grinned. “I look forward to working with you, Detective.”
She laughed, derisively. “Right,” she said. “Matt, did you order the pizza?”
I hadn’t, but I picked up the phone and called Oma’s.
Chief Bill Lester lived in the village a couple of blocks from my cottage. He arrived at the same time as the pizza delivery guy. He was red in the face, agitated, but he held his tongue until the pizza dude left. “Goddamnit it, Jock, do you know who I just got off the phone with?”
Jock grinned. “Yes.”
“The goddamned president of the United States,” said Lester, his voice loud.
“Y’all have a nice chat?” Jock asked, still grinning.
“If you call a presidential request to turn my department over to you a nice chat.”
“Now, Bill,” Jock said. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Almost.” Lester was calming down. “But the goddamned president of the United States? He said he was calling on your behalf, Jock. Can you believe that shit, Matt?”
“Sure can,” I said.
J.D. sat, rooted in her chair, stunned by the chief’s outburst.
Lester shook his head, turned to J.D. “He was calling about you, Detective.”
“Me?” she said.
Bill nodded. “He suggested I give you the authority to work with these two jacklegs and keep it all to yourself. Take me and the whole goddamned law enforcement community out of the loop.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I guess you told him you run this department,” she said.
“Sure,” Bill said, sarcastically. “And I didn’t mention that I report to the town manager who reports to the town commission, all seven of whom are politicians. Or that I know that the U.S. Attorney and the governor, who, by the way, are members of the same party as the president, are already involved in this mess. I told him to go piss up a rope.”
“What did you really say?” I asked.
“I said, ‘Yes, sir,’” said Bill. “I said that a number of times. And then I called the town manager and told him what I planned to do and who had suggested it.”
“And what do you plan to do?” I asked.
“Exactly what the goddamned president of the United States asked me to do. It’s your show, Jock, and J.D is yours for the duration.”
“Bill,” I said, “I’m not sure Gene Alexander’s murder is connected to the others.”
“I’m not either. The president is only interested in the Alexander case, so J.D., you work them all and handle the others the same way we always do. If they turn out to be tied together, we’ll talk about it and decide how to go from there.”
“Just how pissed are you, Bill?” Jock asked.
“Pretty pissed. I guess a couple slices of Oma’s best would probably take the edge off.”
“No problem,” I said.
“You got any beer?” asked the chief.
“No problem,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When the pizza and the beer and the chief were gone, Jock asked if we were up to hearing what he’d learned in Washington.
“I don’t remember the president saying that Matt could hear any of this,” said J.D., smiling.
“I have full discretion to tell Matt anything. Besides, he knows if he ever divulges anything, I’ll kill him.”
Jock was smiling as he said that, but I’m not at all sure there wasn’t some sort of threat in his words. It didn’t matter. I was never going to test it.
“Back in April,” Jock said, “we lost two agents in Columbia. They had successfully infiltrated the guerrilla group known as FARC and were giving us a wealth of intelligence. We’d been able to take down some of their leaders and were closing in on the top dog.”
“What happened?” asked J.D.
“We don’t know for sure. I knew we’d lost some agents, but until yesterday I didn’t know the particulars. Their bodies were dumped in front of our embassy in Bogotá. They had been tortured and then hanged with something very thin, like piano wire. It causes a painful death by choking.”
“Just like Hitler,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Jock. “Just like Hitler did to the people involved in the July twentieth plot to kill him.”
“Do you know how the guerrillas figured out who your agents were?” asked J.D.
“That’s the nub of the problem,” said Jock. “We think there’s a lea
k in our system. Somebody is feeding the bad guys information. That’s what Gene Alexander was working on. Our director brought him into the investigation. Actually, the whole thing was held so closely that only the director and Gene were involved.”
“Why Gene?” asked J.D.
“He was retired, out of it,” said Jock. “The leaks started after he’d left the agency, so he was above suspicion. His analytical skills were about the best our agency had ever seen, so he was the logical person to bring into the loop.”
“Did he find anything?” asked J.D.
“No, and we didn’t lose any more agents. They thought the leaks had stopped. They figured that the leaker, whoever he was, had either quit leaking or was out of the agency. Maybe he’d had pressure put on him specifically by the FARC, or he had some philosophical identity with them. Whatever, the director gave up after a couple of months. But before he did, he had Gene set some electronic traps in the agency’s computer system. If the guy showed up again, they’d get him. At least that was the plan.”
“And the leaker showed up again. Recently?” asked J.D.
“We think that’s what happened. We lost another agent last Sunday.”
“You think it’s related to the other two?” I asked.
“We think so. At least the manner of death was the same.”
“Maybe the agent screwed up,” said J.D.
“I don’t think so,” said Jock. “This agent was a friend of mine. He was about the best in the business. He had gotten himself embedded with one of the drug cartels in southern Mexico. He was born in Los Angeles, but his parents were Mexicans who came from the same area where he was working with the cartel. He fit right in.”
“What was he doing?” I asked. “I mean, was he tracking the drugs into the U.S., taking out the cartel leaders, what?”
“He was trying to track the drugs back to their source. We know who the cartel leaders are, and we’re trying to find where they are so that we can figure a way to take them out. We were about to put another agent in place.”
“Why is your agency so interested in the drug business?” I asked.
“It’s not really the drug business we’re worried about. Not as such. It’s the money that flows from it into terrorist groups around the world that interests us. If we can disrupt the drug flow, we make a dent in the cash flow and maybe eventually put the terrorists that depend on the money out of business.”
“You’ve got the first two murdered agents dealing with guerrillas in Columbia and another one taking on the drug cartels in Mexico,” I said. “How do you see the connection?”
“The only one that makes sense is that the same leaker is dealing with different groups. Maybe he’s expanding his reach. It’s probably not ideological since the Mexicans seem to believe in nothing but making money. I think FARC, even though it’s involved in the drug business, actually believes in Communism. But who knows for sure?”
“Was your friend’s body dropped at the embassy in Mexico City?” asked J.D.
Jock shook his head.
“Where did you find him?” I asked.
“In front of a U.S. Agency for International Development office in Flores.”
“Where’s that?”
“Guatemala.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
We sat in silence for a few moments, the idea of a Guatemalan connection coursing across the synapses of our brains, raising more questions than we had answers. Jock had been right. Maybe the men who tried to kill J.D. and me were really after Jock.
“Did you know about this on Friday when you said something about the Guatemalans getting you and me mixed up?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve operated in that area of the world and I thought it reasonable that I might be a target. It made no sense to me that either you or J.D. would be in the gang’s sights for some reason.”
“I’m still not sure why or how they could make a mistake like that,” I said.
“It actually makes some sense, now that I know what Gene was doing. Suppose they—whoever they are—knew that Gene was working on the problem of the leaker and they had somebody watching him. Maybe a loose surveillance or something. They see me with Gene, probably take a photograph and send it to the leaker. He identifies me as an agent, and thinks I’m probably here to protect Gene. It never connects with them that I came here because of Matt.”
“Then how did I get in their sights?” I asked. “Or J.D.?”
“These guys aren’t the smartest people on the planet,” Jock said. “It may be something as simple as them finding out that I’m staying in your house and didn’t realize that anybody else was here. There was a different shift watching the house, one who hadn’t seen me. They saw you come and get in your car. They followed you downtown, thinking the man coming out of the house had to be me. They took their shot when you came out of the police station.”
“That kind of stupidity is a little hard to believe,” I said.
“Probably. But you can paint a lot of scenarios as to how they thought you were me. None of them need to make a lot of sense. Maybe you did something to piss them off. Maybe it’s a big coincidence that some Guatemalan gangbangers took a shot at you at the same time we’re closing in on a leaker with some sort of Guatemalan connection. Maybe the guys shooting at you aren’t related in any way to Gene’s death.”
“So, maybe they were after me,” said J.D.
“Who knows,” said Jock, “but I’d like to talk to the gangbangers.”
“Jock,” J.D. said, “I’m not sure the Mexicans on that landscaping crew were telling me the truth about there not being a stranger along with them on Friday. You speak Spanish, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What if you talked to them?”
“I’d like that, but not at the police station. I’d want to come at them without any government connections.”
“You think they’ll be more likely to talk to you than if they thought you were with the police?”
“I think they’ll be more likely to be scared shitless of me if they think I’m not official.”
“More scared of you than of the gangbangers?” she asked.
Jock grinned. “Bet on it.”
I changed the subject. “Was Gene making any progress in identifying the leaker?”
“We think so. He called the director Thursday afternoon and said he needed to see him as soon as possible. He couldn’t talk about anything over the phone and was afraid to send anything over the Internet, even with the encryptions they were using.”
“And they never got together,” said J.D.
“No,” said Jock. “When I called the director on Friday to tell him about Gene’s death, he was just leaving his office to fly down here.”
“Did he tell you why?” asked J.D.
“Not on the phone. He just asked me to come to Washington.”
“And your interest in the laptop when you called me on Saturday was that the director thought information about the leaker might be on it,” said J.D.
“Right,” said Jock. “The laptop was so sensitive that the director didn’t want Gene to fly to Washington. He was afraid that something might happen to the computer on the way.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” I said.
Jock shrugged. “I agree, but they didn’t want to take a chance on the plane crashing, the laptop getting stolen, Gene having a heart attack, anything. It was that sensitive. That’s the reason the director was coming to Longboat Key to see Gene.”
“Did the director have any idea what Gene had learned?”
“Nada,” said Jock. “Not even an inkling.”
“But somebody knew what was going on,” said J.D. “We didn’t think to check for bugs on his phone. Maybe people were listening to his conversations.”
“Don’t think so,” said Jock. “Both Gene and the director were using encrypted satellite phones to communicate. Gene would never have used his home phone on something this important.”
“We didn’t find either a cell or a satellite phone,” said J.D.
“I’m not surprised,” said Jock, “but the phone wasn’t particularly important. Unless somebody has the encryption code, they won’t be able to use it.”
“What about the missing laptop?” I asked. “Do you think somebody can break that code?”
“I don’t know,” said Jock, “but that’s probably not important. We think Gene had somehow developed information that would give us the leaker’s identity. That’s probably what’s in the computer. Since the leaker obviously knows who he is, that information isn’t going to help him. The loss of it will certainly hurt us.”
“If we found the laptop, could the director get into it?” J.D. asked.
“Sure,” said Jock. “He knows the key.”
“So it would seem that the best way to find the leaker is to find the laptop,” said J.D.
“Yes,” said Jock. “But it’s probably somewhere at the bottom of the Gulf by now.”
She sat quietly for a couple of beats, chewing on it. Then, “That may not be the case. That might depend on how sophisticated the hitter was.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Think about it,” she said. “Suppose he was just some low-level gangbanger who happened to be convenient for the leaker to hire to kill Gene. Even if he’d been told to take the computer, he might decide that he can make more money by selling it back to the leaker. Or for that matter, he might be so dumb that he’d try to pawn it. He might not have any idea how valuable it is to the leaker.”
“You’ve got a point,” said Jock, “but I was under the impression you thought the murderer was probably a professional.”
“It looked that way, but I really wasn’t thinking about Guatemalan gangs. I thought you were off base on that one.”
Jock smiled. “Wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Those gangbangers grow up killing people,” she said.
“Usually in a blood bath,” I said. “This one took some finesse.”
“Or maybe just practice,” said J.D. “What if the gang has a designated hitter, so to speak? One they use for their contract murders when they don’t want it traced back to them.”
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