But that didn’t mean they weren’t close. He stood and ran to the white door, gripped the knob, and leaned into it, cracking a bubbly pane of antique glass. Shit. Forgot to unlock. Quivering fingers fumbled to release a jingling bundle of keys anchored to a belt loop. He grasped one hand with the other, steadying it, only then able to select the key with the green plastic tab. The door swung open in silence, Lam having freshly oiled the hinges two weeks earlier.
He placed one foot on the threshold and hollered, “Anyone here?” What self-respecting mugger would answer such a stupid question? He huffed at his repeated stupidity, then stepped slowly inside. Only a few places to hide. He peered behind the furnace, cold and lifeless, then walked into the galley. Stepping lightly up oak treaded stairs, he peeked inside both bedroom closets, tucked on either side of the chimney, the ceiling sloping down sharply. Alone, he ran downstairs and rummaged through a musty utility closet.
He lifted a burgundy metal radio the size of a twelve-pack cooler, surprised at its weight, and set it on the kitchen counter. The piece looked as if pulled from a fifties police station. The cord was wrapped in gray cloth, but in good repair. Inserting the plug into a yellowed socket, he frantically turned dials. The beast lay dead.
He slammed a palm onto the counter. How could Colorado Springs Utilities have such a piece of worthless trash for an emergency radio? Joey, the safety manager, was such a useless ass-kissing stuffed shirt. As a lineman, Lam had been required to be CPR certified as well as first aid trained, and he’d spent countless hours listening to EMTs drone on about how to treat burns, breaks, and high-voltage trauma. But now, he’d trade it all for a damn CB radio!
The stainless steel splash shield behind the kitchen sink reflected a yellow glow. He turned the antique radio slowly, and radiant heat warmed his wrist. Through cooling slits in the rear of the case, he glimpsed the warm orange burn of vacuum tubes. Static crackled through a woven black-and-white speaker cover. In his panic, he’d forgotten the old girl had to warm up.
Splintered plastic tape held a white envelope to the side of the device. Lam stuck in fingers and pulled out a frayed paper. Hurriedly he unfolded the note. It was handwritten in pencil on company letterhead. Operating Instructions was double underlined. The graphite gray characters were thick and faded, at least twenty years old. If he got this thing working, would anyone even be listening? At the bottom of the paper was a list of numbers beneath the heading Frequency, specifying dial settings for utility headquarters, Colorado Springs and Woodland Park police stations, plus a misspelled Rangerrs. Emergency had a box around it.
Lam scanned the instructions, then found the narrow black antenna lead hanging from the ceiling next to the chimney. He’d just connected the box to it and was setting the dials according to a crude drawing when something plinked against the side door. He stopped. Frozen vapor blew from his nose and hung in the chill air like a ghost. He slowly pulled out a shallow drawer beneath the counter. Why hadn’t he thought about finding a knife earlier? Another plink plink, as if stones were smacking against the window. Could the glass he’d cracked earlier be falling out of the door? He wrapped a fist around the white plastic handle of a steak knife.
Plink plink plink…plink.
What the hell? He slid toward the edge of the refrigerator and peered around the corner. A blue shadow the size of a man’s hand hovered near the bottom of the door’s milky window. It rapped the glass with another hollow plink. He stared at the shape, then glanced to the other panes near the front. Only thistle brush swayed in a breeze. Suddenly, the shadow grew, flapped quickly, and flew away.
“Damn magpie!” he grumbled through gritted teeth. Turning again to the radio, its speaker still gushing static like falling rain, he worked to set the knobs as in the picture. A tiny black one for RF gain, another for squelch, a larger brown one for frequency, band spread, and something called XIT in the middle.
He held the mic stand next to his chin, pressed Transmit, and the speaker went silent. “Hello?” he said, imagining his voice beaming from the slender antenna strapped to the chimney. Damn, would the hiker’s friends be able to hear him doing this? He gripped the power cord and was about to give it a tug, then stopped. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a Leatherman and unscrewed the radio’s back panel. Gazing inside, he shook his head. Only three of the five vacuum tubes were glowing. He tapped them with a fingernail, then wriggled them down, firmly seating their base into sockets. A minute passed and they still stood cold. He rummaged through the closet and more drawers, coughing on dust, looking for spares, but found only rusted batteries and matches.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven. How to get out of this alive? He closed his eyes and put a thumb to his forehead. Think, damn it! Maybe the hiker had lied about his friends. Maybe there weren’t any more Jap gangsters out there. But no one came up the mountain alone. There must be others. And if they found the lifeless body of the hiker lying in the scrub near the edge of the road, they’d follow Lam’s fresh tracks up to this cottage. He could start hiking toward Colorado Springs, though twelve hours was a long time to be in the open.
But he knew these woods. If he could get far enough, they’d never catch him. He could hole up in that little cave he’d run across two years ago near Lake Moraine. But then, no one would know where he was. What was his strategy? He pounded his forehead with his palm as he paced the kitchen, glancing out the front windows toward the drive, next to the stand of dead bristlecone pines. He’d stalked elk. Only last year, he and his buddy Troy had run seven miles, tracking a spooked lone bull, sneaking up downwind, then bagging the monster with bow and broadhead, just like the Apaches. But the game was different when he was the prey. Three years as a mechanic in the infantry hadn’t taught him much, but he knew how to dig a foxhole and hide.
The generator building! It was mortared stone with a thick antique plate-steel entry. He could lock himself inside. No one would find him there. Once he didn’t come home tonight, his wife would call work and they’d send someone up here.
He cracked the side door and put his eye to the slit. His Jeep stood silently at the edge of the packed-clay lot. Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and listened. The only sounds were a breeze through the tall grass and the high buzz of a mosquito close to his ear.
To hell with it. He swung it open, stepped down the stairs, and ran toward the truck. Halfway there, the feeling of exposure was as intense as childhood dreams where he’d find himself at the front of his third-grade class during show-and-tell, naked. His eyes fluttered to man-sized rocks upon the ridge, a magpie swooping low into the yellow-fringed leaves of a thick clump of golden currant, and again to the stand of dead bristlecones.
The creak of the Jeep’s door echoed through the shallow valley. Leaning on the seat, he reached for another ring of keys, heavy as a maul hammer. He closed the door slowly and leaned upon it till the latch clicked and the interior light went out. Gasoline vapors swirled thick around him. Ducking low, he studied a pool of fuel under the tank. A single drop glistened in sunlight as it fell from where a bullet had passed through the truck’s side.
Hell, even if he wanted to take a chance by racing back down the road, he’d have no gas. Holing up here or chancing an escape into the forest were his only choices. He glanced at the generator house’s thick walls. It’d be better to hide.
A last glance into the bed. Andi’s bangs fluttered in a breeze. Should he bury her? But what if the hiker’s friends came by? He shouldn’t leave her in the open, or did it matter? A faint crackle echoed. The sound of an engine maybe? It seemed to come from all directions. Could be a broken muffler running up the Peak. Still, he couldn’t stay exposed.
Running toward the building, he stopped at a previous set of his own footprints. The parking lot had no traffic except once a week, and a recent rain had erased all other evidence of prior visits. He clutched the keys to keep them from jingling, then changed direction and sp
rinted toward Dark Canyon. If he were to follow that valley, he’d eventually end up in Manitou Springs. Anyone looking at his trail should assume that’s where he’d headed. Once off the parking lot, he stepped across the rocks that had been pushed up during its construction, concealing his tracks. He ducked below trees, careful to not disturb the delicate bed of needles, and came out behind the squatty generator building. Grasping a bundle of dry grass, he broke it off and backed toward the door, sweeping away his footprints.
Slipping a key into a padlock big as a fist, he removed the heavy device and gripped a black handle. He braced himself against the jamb and gave a hard yank. A heavy crack-ca-chunk fired as the steel door edged open. The moist scent of dust and machine oil poured out, accompanied by the low electric hum of the Gilkes hydro generator. A last glance around the empty valley, and he sealed himself inside.
Chapter 11
Repeater
Carter pressed a fat thumb onto a carved brass doorbell switch outside 1533 Gabled Meadow Court in Arlington. Beneath the two-story portico of the massive red-bricked Georgian, he adjusted fake Prada frames on the bridge of his nose. Finally, video surveillance glasses that didn’t look like BCGs. Though they didn’t go with his blue-shirted alarm contractor uniform, a man had his standards.
A short lady with black skirt and white apron opened the door. The dark skin and wide cheekbones suggested Hispanic; the uniform shouted maid.
She smiled. “Can I help you?”
Carter had practiced all morning talking through his nose like Jamison. He drew a pencil from his chest pocket and pointed behind her. “Yeah. Uhhh. Here to fix the system.”
“Pardon?”
“Yeah. Fire and burglar alarm. Just the burglar part.”
She shook her head. “Did Mrs. Moses call you?”
“Yeah. Well, her system did. ABC.” He tapped the green, red, and yellow logo of a bouncing ball embroidered above his shirt pocket. The goal was to plant some bugs and get out, leaving no trace. Everything else was just cover. “Your alarm company. Got a fault. It should be flashing on the keypad.”
“Wait here, please.” She closed the door.
He rocked from toes to heels, glancing back at a white Ford Transit Connect van, stenciled with the same bright, meaningless logo. A minute later, the home’s massive door opened again. In the gap stood a small-waisted medium-height blonde in tight yoga pants, bare feet, and breasts enough for two.
“Quit drooling,” growled Grind through the hidden earpiece. The other detective was back at the Det, watching through the micro camera bored into one arm of the Pradas. After their surveillance at Greenwood Park, Carter had gotten the warrant to bug Senator Moses’ house. Maurine, his wife, had trophy stamped across her chest. The venom in her gaze indicated she was used to nurturing suspicion.
“Can I help you?”
Why was she staring at his glasses? Could she see the camera, or maybe recognize they were Prada knockoffs? “Yeah. Uhh. Need to check your system.”
“The maid told me. We didn’t call.”
He pointed behind her with the pencil. “Yeah. Well. Nothin’ we can fix remotely.”
“Sorry, but there’s no problem with our alarm.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not on your keypad? Probably an intermittent fault. It’ll show on the diagnostics screen. Either way, should be flashing a code at you. Can I take a look?”
She studied his shirt pocket, then lifted her chin to glance at the van. Opening the door wider, she pointed to a small white box on the far side of a white-marbled foyer flanked by wide oak staircases. An oil painting hanging above the controller, a canvas in muted tans and blues, portrayed Army infantrymen surrounding a small water hole on the old western plains.
“Are you also here to appraise the art?”
Carter blinked. “Yeah. No. Sorry. I’ve got a client never stops talking about his collection. He’s got us set up Fort Knox in his basement. Always showing off new stuff he’s got. Kinda rubbed off, I guess.” The painting was a Frederic Remington. An original, as best as he could make out while fingering the keypad below it. If so, an expensive piece.
He’d studied a similar security system all yesterday, slipping a couple of Ben Franklins to a real ABC Alarm employee to get Carter familiar with it. “Nothing illegal. Just make me look like I know what I’m doing,” he’d told his instructor.
Now, he pressed the System screen and scrolled through the settings, dropping into menus and back out, no one selection showing on the display more than a second. He pushed the frames back up his nose. “Yeah. You’ve got a code twenty-three. Means one of your sensors has a problem. I usually see this when one on the window goes bad. One client had a twenty-three, but only during storms. Come to find out the wind would flex the window just enough to throw a fault.” He threw her a broad smile.
She remained bitch faced. “Where’s that accent from?”
Damn. She was shaking him down. “Yeah. Accent? Didn’t know I had one. Grew up in Nevada, near the strip. Got outta there five years back on an intercompany transfer. Guess that’s where.”
A slight smile. “And now?”
“Live off King Street in Rose Hill.” Carter’s mind raced through his cover details: Joking Joes, his favorite pub. The closest Walmart off Route 180. Divorced eight years ago. Family still back in Vegas.
She glanced at the neck of his shirt. “I like the crucifix. What church?”
Shit. That was one he hadn’t expected. Moses had trained her well. Or maybe living with a traitorous, cheating stuffed shirt had understandably made her paranoid. Hell, the man had betrayed his country by selling national secrets to North Korea and may have ordered the death of his own daughter. Now something even larger and more ominous was in the works that involved Mossad. And this woman could’ve even been in on it. Of course she’d ask questions.
“Church?” He thumbed through another couple menus, pretending to be distracted at one of their readings, scowling.
“Blessed Sacrament Catholic, on Braddock Road,” whined Jamison’s voice in his ear. Carter looked up at her again, then averted his gaze, as if vaguely ashamed. “Blessed Sacrament, on Braddock. Don’t get to mass much, though. Gotta work most Sundays.”
Red lips parted into a full-toothed smile. Looked like he was in. She pointed at the control box. “So, what else do you need?”
Carter nodded. “Yeah. Right. This one should be easy to diagnose. I’ll just need to get to the windows. Got a new tester that doesn’t require we—”
She held up a hand. “Look, sorry, but I put my exercise video on hold. Do your thing. I’ll be in the gym. Have the maid get me before you leave.” She padded down the hall and turned; muffled footfalls upon carpeted steps sounded her descent. She hadn’t cut him any slack. That must be where Lori picked up her elusiveness. Came by it honestly. A pang of guilt pitted his stomach for thinking ill of her secretive nature. He’d be screwed up too if he’d been raised in a house where parents interrogated every visitor.
Carter glanced around the foyer. Two tiny white cameras hung in corners, one aimed at the front door, the other at him. He hadn’t actually done any diagnostics, hacked into the system, or anything else that might raise a flag.
He returned to the van and clipped a canvas tool belt around his waist. Back inside, he pulled a black metal device the size of a cordless mouse from a leather holster. A small LED display glowed in its center. He knew his target, the senator’s personal computer, was in a home office, probably somewhere near the back of the house, but a real contractor would start at a front window and work each one in turn. He would do the same. A long, narrow dining room was just off the foyer, with four deeply cased windows gracing its length. The sensors were mounted on each sill, the size of a cabinet’s magnetic catch. He held the fake tester next to each, pressed a button, and a green light shown on its face.
He stepped through a side door into the kitchen. The maid was standing next to a center counter, apparently surveilling his moves.
“Wife’s calling her alarm company,” Jamison said excitedly. “You didn’t charm her.”
Kind of hard to do when your cover is an imitation of a pencil-necked hacker. Grind’s gruff voice sounded as if speaking through a pillow in the background, but Carter made out the greeting. “ABC Alarm.” Jamison had rigged her telephone system to reroute the call to his surveillance cell in the basement of the Det. Grind had to convince her the repair visit was legitimate.
Carter continued pretending to test the sensors in the kitchen. The maid watched him as he flashed the green light next to the little white box on each window, plus several French doors overlooking a herringbone-bricked patio lined with massive potted red hibiscus. After he worked through a living room, the next door on the hall was closed.
“This one have any windows?” he asked the maid, still following.
She nodded. “Just one.”
Carter cracked open the door and stepped onto a red-and-black Persian rug. Half the walls were paneled, the other half built-in bookshelves. Two forty-inch flat screens, one atop the other, sat inside a casing above a cherry desk. A single window blazed brightly, spotlighting the workspace. Carter walked into its glow, as if emerging from a cave into brilliant noonday sun. An eight-by-ten photo of the family rested behind the keyboard, one, almost two decades old, judging from the wide style of Moses’ collar. The man was in front of a marble column, shaking hands with Bill Clinton, his family neatly lined behind him. A champagne glass suggested a party; election night possibly. Even though facing the camera, the father’s bulk towered over his family. Maurine, then smaller chested, Lori, and a younger sister. Lori stood a full head taller than her mother, and looked to be just parting the awkward teenage years. What was it like to grow up where ambition overshadowed family? It had to have an effect. Was Lori’s unwillingness to share information trained into her by Maurine’s skepticism? Did her driving ambition flow from her father’s bent? Or had she chosen her own path?
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