Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  Alex rang the doorbell, and an African American woman in her early thirties responded. With reddened eyes, she introduced herself simply as Howard’s daughter.

  “We’re FBI agents. Russell Phillips is expecting us,” Alex said.

  She welcomed them into the home. “He’ll meet with you in Daddy’s study.”

  “Please, give our condolences to the family,” Alex said.

  She pointed to Ric’s arm. “An agent from the LA office told us what happened. I’m so sorry.” They walked down a wide hallway to a stone-and-wood study. It opened onto a flowering courtyard filled with light and color. “I’ll tell Uncle Russell you’re waiting. Can I bring you anything?”

  “No thank you,” Ric said. “Who is taking care of you while you’re managing everyone else?”

  She hesitated. “Only one thing keeps me going, and it’s justice. You’re FBI. Find out who killed my father. He was the most giving, honorable man who ever walked the earth.” She lifted her chin and left them alone.

  Alex believed a lot could be told about a man from his office, and the same proved true of Howard Dottia. A leather-bound Bible sat on the right-hand corner of his desk with a worn copy of Oswald Chambers’s My Utmost for His Highest. Beside it were two photographs—an older woman, who must be his wife, and the young woman they’d just met. On the left side was a framed photo of him and Russell on a ski lift. Behind his desk rose a bookcase crammed with a mix of business, marketing, classics, and biographies of people throughout history who’d contributed to the world’s betterment.

  “He wasn’t a killer or responsible for these crimes,” Alex said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Howard was my best friend.”

  The agents turned to find Russell Phillips standing in the doorway. His eyes were red and his face was blotchy.

  “You suspect me in Howard’s death, but he was closer than a brother. I want his killer found and prosecuted.” He drew in a deep breath and appeared to regain his composure. “Agent Price, how’s the arm?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  Russell walked to the bookcase where the biographies were shelved. “We shared many a late hour discussing these, from Josephus to Franklin D. Roosevelt. Howard was what we call a prayer warrior. Said he always had my back.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss.” Ric’s tone held more compassion than prior to entering the home. “I’m sure you understand we need to ask a few questions.”

  “Of course. When I first heard of the absurdity of crimes that brought you to LA, I told Howard your investigation was a waste of taxpayers’ money. Sure you’ve heard the line before. Now I’m ready to dip into my own funds to arrest who’s responsible.”

  “LA’s FBI is outstanding, but Alex and I have a personal stake in this. We understand you spoke to Mr. Dottia before he was killed.”

  “I might have been the last person who did.” His jaw tightened. “It’s obvious, don’t you agree? Whoever planted the bomb feared Howard had figured him out.”

  “Would you know why?” Ric said.

  “He called me on the way to the parking lot after you had breakfast. Claimed you and Agent LeBlanc challenged his self-respect. He’d spent time thinking through various events and conversations and concluded he knew who initiated the crimes in Houston, and we both knew the man. His words were he’d ‘connected the dots.’ We were scheduled to talk once he arrived at the office.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Refused, and I was rather insistent.”

  “Whom do you suspect?” Ric said.

  He moistened his lips. “I repeatedly demanded the man’s identity. But Howard wouldn’t continue the conversation over the phone.” He bit down on his lip. “The man who killed Howard and tried to kill you has to be someone I trust. Truth has a way of sucker punching a man. My misjudgment of character got my best friend killed. And I think I know who.”

  “I understand betrayal,” Alex said. A call from Houston’s FBI seized his attention—his and Ric’s ASAC. Since the trip to the ER, Alex had Ric’s cell phone. He excused himself, went into the hallway, and stood beside a huge window that faced a pool and gazebo.

  “This is Agent LeBlanc.”

  “Tried to call you.”

  “My phone’s dead.”

  “How is Ric holding up?” their assistant special agent in charge said. “He went through knee surgery a few years ago, and I remember he can’t tolerate painkillers.”

  “Fifteen stitches, and he’s managing. Rest will help when I can get him to slow down.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Will do my best, sir.”

  “Two things,” their ASAC said. “In view of Ric’s injuries and the ongoing investigation here, we need you two leaving LA today. We have you booked on a 3:55 flight this afternoon. Be on it. Got a red flag here. Remember Doug Reynold? Hold on while I take this call.”

  “Sure.” Kingpin Doug Reynold had been on the FBI’s watch list for the past three years after two police officers were found murdered five miles from his farm. Reynold claimed law enforcement were the gophers of a corrupt government and deserved whatever happened to them. He went by Commander Reynold, and two of his so-called soldiers were arrested for the murders. The men were later released when two women came forward and offered alibis for them.

  “Alex, I’m back.” The ASAC returned to the line. “Reynold bailed Ace McMann out of jail.”

  “Are they holed up at Reynold’s compound?”

  “If so, no one’s budged.”

  The wheels in Alex’s head sped forward. “The only use Reynold would have for McMann is access to Whitt and the dog.”

  “You might be right.”

  Alex was starting to have mixed feelings about staying in LA. “I’ll forward a pic of Reynold to Bekah Howe and Dr. Stacy Broussard.”

  “Keep me posted if either woman recognizes him. The call I just took was from the CID. Private Wilcox, the man in custody regarding the stolen quadcopter, said the buyer represented an extremist militia group southwest of Houston. He and his partner transported it to Little Rock, Arkansas, where a man paid him, then pulled a gun. Shot at both of them. Killed his partner. Wilcox couldn’t give us the shooter’s name and claims he doesn’t remember what he looked like.”

  “Reynold’s group is in Fresno, same location.”

  “Connor never mentioned him.”

  “His killer made sure he didn’t say anything more. When you and Ric interviewed him, were there any signs of suicidal tendencies?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Connor fought depression according to his ex-wife, which makes taking Zoloft believable if it wasn’t for the arsenic. LA is conducting guard interviews.”

  “And LA can handle that and Connor’s death. The hows and whys are their job. I need you and Ric here today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see you and Agent Price at IAH. I want to be briefed on every detail of what you’ve learned.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alex dropped Ric’s phone into his jacket pocket, torn and dirty from the bombing. Answers were here, and he despised the idea of flying home. Ric met him in the hallway.

  “Was that Houston?”

  “The ASAC.” Alex told him what their boss had revealed.

  “I regret leaving here with unfinished business,” Ric said.

  “Right there with you. Whatever Reynold and Ace McMann are up to, the ASAC wants us on it.”

  “Reynold connected to the quadcopter, the murder, or involved with the disease makes sense.” Ric stole a look at his watch. “We need to get back to Russell.”

  The two men stepped into the library and closed the door. “Thanks for waiting,” Alex said.

  “Before we were interrupted,” Ric said, “you were about to tell us whom you suspected in the murders.”

  Russell sighed. “The person behind this is insane. Why go to the elaborate scheme for a plot of ground I’ve never seen? None of my employees would have passed my stringent back
ground checks if anything had been amiss in their records. But maybe I’ve ignored the warning—”

  “Who?”

  “My nephew, Jensen.” The words were spoken barely above a whisper, as though the sound made the accusation true. “He earned a doctorate in veterinary medicine and completed a postdoctoral degree program in clinical pathology. He focused on research in animal diseases, particularly dogs at a veterinary research facility.” Russell paced the room. “He invested years of education and training before embarking upon a future at Phillips Security. I thought my company was what he wanted.” He shook his head. “Right now I feel pretty stupid. He started in the basement and worked his way up to the penthouse. Gentlemen, he stands in line to have it all. He worked with Howard Dottia in searching for property in Houston. If the evidence hadn’t led to Phillips Security. If Connor hadn’t sworn the mastermind was there. If Howard couldn’t tell me over the phone. If Jensen didn’t have the knowledge, maybe I wouldn’t be so sure. Never thought him capable of murder.”

  Ric’s face was etched with the obvious anguish of his wounded arm. “If Jensen is behind these crimes, how do you explain his motivation to infect a dog with a powerful bacterial strain when he’s attached to his own animal and is a veterinary pathologist?”

  “I don’t know how his mind works.”

  “We need to see his office,” Ric said.

  “I’m going with you.” His drawn features and slumped shoulders revealed his grief. “I should have seen the warning signs. Known this.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Ric said. “In my opinion, your life is in danger too.”

  Ric had changed his mind about Russell, or was he seeking the man’s confidence? “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Alex said.

  “I can still shoot straight.”

  After offering condolences to Mrs. Dottia and her daughter, the agents and Russell left for Phillips Security.

  After parking, Russell led the way to Jensen Phillips’s office. The blinds were closed, and Russell opened them. “Jensen is my deceased brother’s only child, and I have no heir. I’ve always thought of him as my own. What has this stupid old man done?”

  Alex raised his hand. “Love is blind. I made a colossal mistake once that almost set a guilty person free. A woman.”

  He absorbed every detail in the room. A glance at the credenza behind Jensen’s desk revealed an eleven-by-fourteen photograph of a man posing with a yellow Lab. Truth gripped him like a vise. The answers were here all along. Smaller individual photos of a collie, a boxer, a cocker spaniel, and a beagle were nearby. Howard Dottia said Jensen was odd . . . the first indication of a depraved mind.

  Alex pointed to the photograph of the Lab and the man. “I assume the photo is of your nephew?”

  Russell nodded. “With his dog Sophie. She’s with Jensen constantly, a 24-7 friend. Brings her to the office. Does magic tricks to amuse her.”

  Unusual for a huge conglomerate, but Dottia had indicated Sophie was a service dog. “Tell me about his wife, family.”

  “They have a beautiful seven-year-old girl.” He pressed his lips together. “Who am I fooling? I’m making excuses for him. Jensen ignores his stepdaughter and his wife. He’s a dog lover. They’ve been married over four years. I kept hoping he’d grow into being a husband and a father.”

  “We received the initial autopsy report from Lynx Connor,” Alex said. “It revealed traces of human brucellosis, but he died of a lethal dose of an antidepressant coated with arsenic.”

  “Whoever is behind this doesn’t have a problem with murder.”

  “Or unleashing a deadly disease upon innocent people.”

  “Do you think Connor and Jensen were working together? Howard shouldn’t have died in an effort to expose the truth. I’ll not rest until I learn why.” Russell eyed him squarely. “And if it’s Jensen, God have mercy on his soul.” He shook his head. “And mine for not suspecting him.”

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, while the tantalizing scent of chicken creole filled the house, Stacy searched the extra bedroom for anything the investigators might have missed about Whitt. Nothing surfaced. She lowered herself onto the bed, exhausted and aggravated at her lack of strength. She’d delayed decorating the bedroom until she gained custody, which would allow Whitt to design his own room. Even then she hesitated with the need to sell the house. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she despised that too.

  “Hey.” Dad sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her. She hadn’t noticed him entering the bedroom. “I should have knocked.”

  “The door’s open, and you’re sleeping in this room.” A gnawing thought settled over her. She’d wakened this morning with her door open. “Tell me you slept through the night instead of taking turns checking on me.”

  “Can’t.”

  They’d sat vigil for KaraLee all those years ago. She leaned into his strong frame and sobbed. “I thought I was made of better stuff than this, but I’m afraid. I want to break down and cry until there’s nothing left inside me.”

  “Cher, God gives us tears to wash our souls free of sadness.”

  How many times had she heard him say this while growing up? “Since I rode into the clearing, life keeps getting worse. If only Whitt would surface, I could relax a bit. He’s bound to be deathly ill. I love him, Dad. I want to provide a home for him, show him everyone isn’t like his parents. Teach him how to trust.”

  “Don’t give up. Keep praying.”

  She drew in his faith. “God and I have been talking nonstop. I trust and believe He has a plan, and I hope it’s not like the situation with KaraLee.”

  “I pray the same for both your sakes. Has Whitt ever talked about going to a special place or mentioned where he’d like to visit?”

  “We’ve talked, but nothing definite. He’s extremely intelligent, interested in science and philosophy, not sports and normal kid interests. The wildest conversation was about him learning to play the violin.”

  “Hunting? Fishing?”

  “We’ve gone fishing, a lake north of town. Nothing remote about it. No place for him to hide.”

  “Good folks are searching. No one’s giving up. I believe things will work out. You’ve always been my adventuresome child, independent—becoming a vet, moving to the big city by yourself, and now being a foster mother to a boy others wouldn’t think of befriending.”

  “You know my taking care of him started out because of KaraLee. When I realized I truly cared for him, my heart opened to heal. I wanted to see you and Mom, but I feared you’d written me off.”

  “Never. You’re a strong woman, mentally and spiritually.” He kissed the top of her head. “And soon to be physically.”

  “So many things I want to do in my life. Having you and Mom a part of it is a real blessing.”

  “That works both ways.”

  Her phone alerted her to an incoming text. She pulled it from her jean pocket.

  Sending a pic. Do u recognize him?

  She studied the photo of a middle-aged man. Hooded eyes. Grim. No. Sorry.

  Thanks. Will be home late 2nite.

  Arrests?

  No. Whitt?

  Not yet.

  Folks will find him.

  I believe so. C u soon.

  She placed the phone on the bed. “That was Alex, the FBI agent.”

  “Can a caring dad ask if he’s special?”

  Her heart softened. “When I told him Whitt and I came as a package, he didn’t run. We don’t know each other very well yet.”

  “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “He’ll be back from LA tonight. He’s Cajun too—New Iberia.”

  Dad laughed. “I like him already.”

  She did like Alex. Very much. His calls were a highlight to an otherwise-dismal situation while she waited for news about Whitt. How serendipitous when Dexter told her he and Alex were friends.

  “We have a big day tomorrow. Can’t imagine how many dogs will be at your clinic. Media coverage too. Sure
glad you agreed to police protection in case any other idiots crawl out of the swamp.”

  “Yes, sir. Guess what? Soon as my favorite Cajun restaurant heard about what was going on, they offered to cater lunch.”

  “Don’t tell your mother.”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Stacy,” Mom called from down the hall. “Can you come here a minute?”

  She and her dad moved to the other room, where Mom was watching the news on TV. “What do you need?” Stacy said.

  Mom swallowed hard. “Just heard that two Houston FBI special agents on assignment in LA narrowly escaped death when attempting to rescue an injured man from a car bombing. One escaped injury and the other required stitches.”

  “Has to be Alex and Ric. I just texted with him, and he didn’t say a word.” She picked up her cell phone and typed.

  R u ok? Saw the news.

  He immediately responded. I’m ok. Ric has stitches. He’s ok.

  When would this be over?

  Early Friday evening, Whitt reached for the water canteen and shook the last few droplets into his mouth. Empty, and the body required water to survive. How long until everything shut down? He barely held on to life, and darkness surrounded him inside and out. Xena had returned while Whitt slept. Now she lay with her head on his belly, and the weight hurt. But she was comforting him the only way she knew, like she’d done for Todd Howe.

  Dying used to have a frightening sound to it. But the slow walk into whatever the future held wasn’t so bad. Sometimes he dozed off only to waken weaker than before. At the rate his body dwindled to shutdown mode, he’d be gone by morning. Miss Stacy had wanted him to grasp the power of God, but he’d clutched restraint like an anchor. He believed a person needed to show he or she was worth eternity. Demonstrate to God he’d taken the brains given to him and made a dent in the depravity of mankind. Now as his body relinquished to its destiny, he wanted to think he’d be good enough. Doubts plagued him. If God took into consideration that Whitt had abandoned Stacy in the hospital, the outcome looked . . . deplorable.