Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  “He can’t hide from the city’s law enforcement for too long,” Ric said.

  Alex glanced up to see his partner leaning against the doorway. “I know, but I’ll feel better when I know he’s safe. Might want to shake his teeth out.”

  Ric shook his head. “Not sure appropriate discipline is your strong trait as a parent.”

  The words sobered him along with the growing thought of a family with Stacy and Whitt. He reached for his coffee, as bitter as finding a dead body.

  An e-mail from the LA office landed in his in-box. Attached was a video allowing the agents to read Lynx Connor’s body language. “Now we can find out what he said during the interview.”

  Alex moved his chair so Ric could view the screen. The video showed two agents sitting opposite a table with Connor and a well-dressed man in his fifties, obviously Connor’s attorney.

  An agent opened the conversation. “We understand you’ve agreed to help us solve specific crimes in Houston, Texas. Among them is the murder of Todd Howe. In turn, we will provide protection as needed until arrests are made.”

  “Yes. I’m concerned for my life.” He gripped his hands on the table.

  Real fear or a ploy for sympathy?

  “Yes, sir. Would you begin by giving us your name and contact information?”

  After Connor gave an LA address, the agent moved on to the case’s legal ramifications.

  The second agent, a female, interrupted the questioning. “Mr. Connor, the zip code you gave us for your address doesn’t match what we have in our records.”

  Connor dragged his tongue over his lips. “I’m nervous, okay? So I transposed a number. You have it right.”

  Alex jotted down his confusion under possible deceit.

  She typed into her phone. “The house number is not a part of the zip code.”

  Connor’s attorney conferred with him.

  “I apologize. I confused my former address with my present.”

  “What is your current correct address?” she said.

  “The zip is correct, but the apartment number is 1103 Building D.”

  She nodded for the male agent to continue.

  “Are you married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  “Were you acquainted with Todd Howe?”

  “Yes. We worked for the same person.”

  “Todd Howe was the owner of four Green-to-Go restaurants in Houston, Texas. You’ve listed ‘self’ as your business consultant employer. Neither of you give another company or individual name.”

  Connor glanced away, then back to the agent. “We were private contractors.”

  “For whom?”

  “Russell Phillips, owner of Phillips Security here in Los Angeles.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  Connor snorted. “Whatever he told us. Isn’t that obvious? He pays big bucks.”

  “Are you still employed by Mr. Phillips?”

  Connor shifted in his chair. “I suppose.”

  “Either you are or you aren’t.”

  “I am. At least he thinks so.”

  “Do you know who killed Todd Howe?”

  “Only speculation.”

  “Did you kill Todd Howe?”

  He startled. “No. I called his widow after his death looking for him.”

  The agent, a seasoned interrogator, opened a file folder. “Mr. Connor, covering your tracks doesn’t make you innocent. At the moment, you are a person of interest in the death of Todd Howe.”

  The attorney lifted his hand to protest, but Connor stopped him. “I did not kill Todd.”

  The agent leaned back in his chair. “I think you did.”

  Connor stiffened, convincing Alex he’d committed the murder.

  The agent continued. “How well were you acquainted with the deceased?”

  “We worked together on a few projects.”

  “Specifics, Mr. Connor. Neither of us wants to be here any longer than necessary. Describe your relationship with Todd Howe.”

  “We met socially and conducted business.”

  “Ever been to his home?”

  “A few times.”

  “Did you like him?”

  Connor sneered. “What kind of question is that? We weren’t touchy-feely, if that’s what you’re asking. Shared a few drinks.”

  The agent eyed him. “Have you ever flown in the Howes’ private jet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Didn’t count them.”

  “What were your destinations?”

  “Social, pure social. He showed me the countryside.”

  “Interesting. Who placed the video and listening device in Stacy’s clinic?”

  “Todd Howe.”

  “Why?”

  Connor rubbed his face. “Howe wanted to find out what went on at the vet clinic, to see if she’d catch on to the water hoax and the diseased dog. Be one step ahead of her. So he hacked into her alarm and security camera system and planted a camera and recording device.”

  “The neighborhood is not known for its real estate value,” the agent said. “What made the property so valuable?”

  “A future building site.” Connor held up his hand. “I wasn’t told the type of company.”

  “Was it worth posing as the local health department, using a shell company, and stating the water had been contaminated? Committing murder? Facing federal charges?”

  “Purchasing property is not a crime.” Connor leaned in to the agent. “I am innocent of killing Howe.”

  “It is in your best interest to cooperate with the FBI,” the agent said. “Lying or withholding evidence is a federal offense.”

  “No point tossing around the Big Brother factor. I’m here to cooperate.”

  “Mr. Connor, who took the photos of this boy?” The agent opened a file and pushed a photo of Whitt toward him.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who placed pics of this boy inside Stacy Broussard’s Sunday newspaper?”

  “I was in custody here Sunday morning.”

  “Who phoned Stacy Broussard and threatened her?”

  He shrugged. “Not me.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  “Ending up dead is not in my best interests.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation? You claimed to have more information. So far, that’s not been the case.” The agent paused, obviously letting his words sink into Connor’s reality check. He read whatever was written on his notepad. “I’d like information about the dog infected with canine brucellosis.”

  Connor held up both hands. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Who did?”

  “Todd Howe.”

  “How did he manage to infect the animal with a genetically engineered strain of brucellosis?”

  “He worked the biomedical side with the dog. The whole thing was Russell Phillips’s idea. He didn’t invite me to a strategic planning session.”

  “You expect us to believe Todd Howe, a restaurant owner, on his own oversaw the development of this disease?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  How much of Connor’s testimony could they believe? “I see. So how did Howe get the dog to the crime scene on a motorcycle?”

  “Not sure.”

  “What about the quadcopter?”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  The agent pulled Whitt’s photo back and closed the file. “We’re finished here.”

  “Why?” Connor said.

  “You’re withholding information. So the interview is concluded.”

  “Wait a minute. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Ask me more questions.”

  “Sorry. You’re wasting the FBI’s time.”

  “Please. Russell Phillips or one of his men will kill me.” A muscle twitched below Connor’s left eye.

  “What do you know about Todd Howe’s murder?”

&nbs
p; “Nothing, except Phillips must have ordered it.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard he got greedy. Wanted more money to expand his restaurants nationally.”

  “You indicated to his widow that whoever popped Todd did the world a favor because he was a worthless idiot.”

  “Yeah. We’d had an argument, and I was still upset.”

  “Must have been a big one. Why did you call him?”

  “To tell him we were finished doing business together.”

  “But you claimed to be working with Russell Phillips.”

  “I planned to resign.”

  “How do you resign from a man capable of murder?”

  “I’d earned the right.”

  The agent shook his head. “Who was in charge of infecting the dog?”

  Connor narrowed his brows. “Already told you Todd’s area was the disease portion. He said this woman who lived in the subdivision was a vet. His job was to follow her and plant the dog so she’d find her.”

  “Her, as in the dog is a female?”

  “An assumption since females are the ones most affected by canine brucellosis.”

  “You’re aware of the disease.”

  Connor shrugged. “I looked it up online when Todd told me the disease had been genetically engineered.”

  “I’d like to know everything about your association with Russell Phillips.”

  “I’m telling you, he’ll kill me if he learns I’ve talked.” His voice rose.

  “How did he initially contact you?”

  “Through the man with no name.”

  “Then how reliable is the name of Russell Phillips?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “We could cut you loose—”

  “Okay.” Connor looked at his hands before beginning. “Russell Phillips is one mean, calculating dude. He planned to move his corporation from California to Houston to save on taxes. He chose an area where the Grand Parkway would soon be constructed, but he didn’t want to invest heavily in the land. So he arranged and funded Todd Howe to set up Stacy Broussard with the infected dog, and me with the phony water problem. The subdivision was less than middle class, so an epidemic of flu-like symptoms with a water contamination problem set the stage for a cash buyout at less-than-market-value prices. The driving sales pitch was once the water problem had been rectified, those who owned property would never get what it was worth.”

  The LA agent repeated a few more questions to which Connor denied knowledge. “A highly respected multimillionaire schemes to buy out a subdivision for building purposes by fabricating a water problem and infecting a dog with a genetically engineered disease that has the ability to kill innocent people?” The agent issued a harsh stare. “You expect the FBI to believe this? Mr. Connor, if you’d like the FBI’s assistance, then you’d better come up with valid answers to our questions or you’ll be going to jail for a long time.”

  Connor scratched an ample jaw. “I told you all I know.”

  “We’re finished here. When you’re ready to help us, we’ll consider your request for protection.”

  The video ended.

  An update from LA flew into their phones: Russell Phillips had been picked up for questioning.

  Clearly Connor had lied. All the signs were there, from his denial of critical information to his body language. “What a wild story. And he expects law enforcement to swallow it?” Alex drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “But he wouldn’t have laid it out there if some aspects weren’t true.” He searched online for Russell Phillips and his company.

  Ric studied the computer screen. “What more do we have?”

  “The company specializes in commercial and residential alarm systems. Been in business for over thirty years. Hold on. I want to see if he’s ever been in trouble.” He accessed the FBI’s secure site. “Phillips looks like a model citizen, gives to charities, is recognized as an outstanding employer to work for. In-house day care for employees’ kids. A health facility for employees to work out, complete with a swimming pool. Health insurance is 100 percent paid, and a retirement plan better than any I’ve seen.”

  “Sounds like the perfect cover. Who’d suspect him? I agree Phillips doesn’t have motive unless there’s evidence not yet discovered. Tax evasion. Illegal dealings.”

  Alex stood. “I disagree. Why oust people from their homes when he has plenty of money? He’d be going door-to-door to explain his business plan and host a barbecue. So why would a lowlife like Connor accuse him of such a scheme?”

  “The deeper we investigate Phillips, the more possibilities of motive that we haven’t even considered. And we haven’t received the full report on Howe’s offshore accounts.”

  “Connor said he and Howe did contract work for Phillips, to get the job done. I realize LA is on this investigation, but Houston isn’t their city. I’ll concede to your apprehension that he looks too clean. Let’s access everything in Phillips’s personal and company files.” Alex held up a finger. “I’d really like to fire questions at Connor and Phillips.”

  “Connor’s ex might have info.”

  Alex turned to his partner. “Let’s check on flights to LAX.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Alex glanced at the time. “Good. I want to check on Stacy. See when her parents are arriving. She thinks she’s getting released.”

  “Not with what she’s been through.”

  “She’s tough. Might just walk.” Alex had no clue where his emotions were taking him. He’d been burned and sworn off women. Now he was tangled with a woman, a boy, and a crime. The latter came first. Then he’d concentrate on the future.

  “YOU HAVE BRUCELLOSIS,” Dr. Maberry said. “I cannot take responsibility for your health if you leave the hospital.”

  “I’ll take whatever medicine you prescribe, but this is my choice.”

  “You live alone. Your temperature could rise. You’re weak. Other symptoms that we aren’t aware of could surface.” He inhaled deeply. “You are risking your life by checking out of the hospital. I’m your doctor, Stacy. Please listen to my counsel.”

  She’d handled letting down others before, and she’d deal with it again. “I’ll take the risk.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Can’t you prescribe antibiotics?”

  “You are one stubborn woman. But yes, I can do that. Promise me you’ll contact me immediately if your temperature rises even a little. I’ll write prescriptions for antibiotics that you must fill before you reach home.” Lines deepened around his eyes. “But I’m not signing the release.”

  “I understand.”

  “Whitt tested positive for brucellosis. For his sake, cooperate with those seeking him. No shielding him from social services.”

  The relief she felt in returning home hit void. “Maybe he’ll call when he learns I’m home.”

  “Let’s hope he does.”

  “How are the others doing?”

  “Some are improving. Some are not.”

  She’d find out more later. Right now, she needed to get home.

  Midmorning, in front of her little home, Stacy handed Dad her house keys, and he opened the rear passenger door of his rental car and offered her his hand. Earlier he’d driven her truck home, parked it at the curb, and taken a taxi back to the hospital.

  Media vans swarmed the street and reporters blocked her driveway. Weakness assaulted her at the thought of fighting her way through the crowd. How did they know she’d left the hospital?

  “I can handle any pas bon.” He arched his back.

  Oh, to hear her father’s Cajun, even if he did say he could handle any no-good.

  “They aren’t going to upset my little girl.” He placed a protective embrace around her shoulders and escorted her to the front door.

  Reporters and microphones swarmed her.

  “Dr. Broussard, how does it feel to cheat death?”

  “Have they found the boy for whom you were seeking c
ustody?”

  “Are you experiencing any side effects from the antibiotics?”

  “What’s the long-term prognosis?”

  Dad turned and waved his hand over the crowd. “Enough.”

  A minuscule silence, before the demanding voices began again.

  “What about the dog?”

  “Do you plan to continue practicing veterinary medicine?”

  The length of her driveway seemed to stretch on forever. Dad handed Mom the keys, and she unlocked the door. Stacy breathed in the familiar scent of home, a blend of flowery potpourri. Never had her meager furnishings looked so inviting.

  “What a lovely home.” Mom wandered through the small living room to the kitchen. “I love the distressed white and the blue accessories. So serene.” She smiled at the photos of Whitt. “They will find your boy.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  Mom nodded. “I’ll go through your kitchen and make a grocery list. Once the buzzards outside leave, I’ll have your dad drive me to the store if you feel comfortable alone. Saw a grocery not far from here.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I have cash in my purse.”

  “Nonsense. You keep your money.”

  She recognized Mom’s method of handling stress—making sure everyone was fed. “I’ve missed you.”

  Mom whisked away a tear. “The past is what it is—gone. We live and love today and tomorrow as part of God’s family.” She kissed Stacy’s cheek. “Need to fatten you up.”

  While her parents were at the grocery, she flipped on the TV for the latest report, hoping Whitt had been found. The news streamed live.

  The antibiotics had helped to reduce the fever for some but not others. Just like Dr. Maberry had indicated.

  A woman and two children had died from the human brucellosis.

  Eight others hospitalized. Three persons were showing signs of improvement.

  Two dogs from her neighborhood had tested positive.

  Whitt’s parents denied knowledge of his whereabouts.

  The critical need for a serum was peaking.

  The FBI named Russell Phillips, owner and CEO of Phillips Security, and Lynx Connor, both of Los Angeles, as persons of interest.

  The doorbell rang, and she hesitated to answer. The last thing she needed was a reporter or someone angry about her neglect with Xena . . . or Whitt’s parents. A quick look showed it was Alex.